


Noisy Neighbours

by brazenlyunabashedlyshamelessly



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Some angst, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-03-16 00:25:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 63,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3467579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brazenlyunabashedlyshamelessly/pseuds/brazenlyunabashedlyshamelessly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twist on the 'Could you please move your bed a little further from the wall, I'm trying to work' AU.</p><p>"After going through one cup, and making it halfway through a second, Mickey decided that this was bullshit. He lived here, too; he paid his goddamn rent on time. There was no reason why he had to listen to his douche face neighbour fuck some chick so hard Mickey’s walls shook."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm starting something new, and I'm hoping you all like it. Before we get going, I would just like to let you guys know that I'm only going to be updating once a week. It's mainly just so that it happens consistently rather than in sudden bursts one day after another, and then for three weeks nothing.

_Thunk..._

_Thunk..._

_Thunk..._

Mickey Milkovich stirred at the sound of a dull banging echoing in his small apartment. _What the hell...?_

_Thunk... Thunk... Thunk..._

Jesus Christ, not again.

Rolling onto his other side, Mickey reached for his phone to check the time through bleary eyes. 3:27 AM. The aggravated groan that tore free from his throat before he could stop it, the sound muffled by the pillow still pressed against his face.

Three weeks ago, Mickey had moved into apartment 506. The place’s availability had been a godsend—if he’d believed in a god, anyway—finally allowing him to leave his father’s house.

It had almost seemed too good to be true: the rent wasn’t too high, the apartment was big enough for most of his camera equipment, and the white Muslim landlady had zero interest in Mickey beyond his ability to pay on time.

Perfect, right? Except, not really.

_Thunk. Thunk. Thunk._

Sitting up in his double bed, Mickey aimed a groggy scowl in the direction of the paper-thin wall. What was going on in his neighbour’s apartment was the one wrinkle in what would be an otherwise ideal living situation.

Mickey had never actually met the guy living next door, although he’d heard the man coming—pun intended—and going often enough. Whoever his neighbour was, he worked weird hours, and had a very... active... sex life. As was evidenced by the banging coming from the apartment next door.

_thunkthunkthunk_

A hoarse shout, followed by more erratic thudding against the adjoining wall. Then, for one blissful moment, silence. Holding his breath, Mickey waited for some sound to break the quiet.

Thank fuck. Resettling himself in bed, Mickey pulled the covers tightly around himself. He was just beginning to drift off when he heard something that almost made him yell in frustration.

Soft laughter, low murmurs, and then...

_Thunk..._

_Thunk..._

_Thunk..._

Mickey spent the rest of the night wondering what the State of Illinois’s stance was on situational murder.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey got virtually no sleep after that. He didn’t know if he should be disgusted with or impressed by his neighbour’s apparent stamina. Dude had kept going for fucking hours. By the time all the banging had finally died down, it was just past six thirty, almost time for Mickey to get up anyway.

Stumbling out of bed, cursing with every other step, Mickey headed to the bathroom. He splashed his face with cold water in the hopes that would wake him up: no dice. Maybe coffee would work.

After going through one cup, and making it halfway through a second, Mickey decided that this was bullshit. He lived here, too; he paid his goddamn rent on time. There was no reason why he had to listen to his douche face neighbour fuck some chick so hard Mickey’s walls shook.

In fact, the more Mickey thought about it, the more pissed off he got. He spent most of his morning regiment muttering to himself about it. During his lukewarm shower, while he was sitting on the throne, trying to find a work shirt that wasn’t creased.

No more. He was gonna talk to the guy next door today, tell the horny prick to cut the shit. Hell, he was gonna head over there right now. See how the asshole liked being woken up by the sound of loud banging.

He’d barely pulled his own door shut before he was striding over to pound on his neighbour’s door. Repeatedly.

There was the sound of someone stumbling around in the apartment. When the door wasn’t opened quickly enough, Mickey slammed his fist on it again, more loudly this time. Finally, someone answered, yanking the door open, and squinting at Mickey in consternation.

The guy was wearing nothing more than a pair of briefs. He was tall, fair-haired and, Mickey couldn’t help but notice, pretty well endowed. But whatever, that didn’t excuse the guy for keeping Mickey up half the night.

“There a reason you’re makin’ such a goddamn noise?” the guy asked, his voice rough with sleep.

Mickey’s jaw almost hit the floor.

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me? While you’ve been screwin’ whoever in there, your goddamn bed’s been slammin’ against the wall so fuckin’ hard; it’s been rattlin’ my goddamn ceilin’!”

The guy’s expression morphed into one of confusion.

“Wait... who are you?” he asked Mickey.

Lip curling in disgust, Mickey spoke slowly. Guy might be packing between his legs, but there was clearly nothing going on between his ears.

“I’m your neighbour, you twat. And I’ve been listenin’ to you—”

“Ian!” the guy yelled, cutting Mickey off. “Someone from next door wants to talk to you.” To Mickey, he said more quietly, “Wait here for a sec.”

Then, the man sauntered away from the doorway, revealing that what Mickey had initially thought to be briefs was actually... a jockstrap.

Unable to help himself, Mickey gawked after the guy; he didn’t think he’d ever seen one of those things outside of a porno. It took a second for him to register that the man had called for someone named Ian to come to the door.

 _Wait, did that mean his neighbour was_ gay _?_

Straightening up when he heard a set of footsteps heading in his direction, Mickey prepared himself to give the right guy the what for this time. Only for the words to dry up in his throat at the sight of the other man.

The dude who had answered the door at first was cute, but ultimately forgettable; this guy was in a league of his own. Tall and lean, clad only in a pair of dark boxers, Mr Bedrock was a sight to behold. Pale skin, red hair, and bright green eyes completed the package.

In that moment, Mickey’s fingers itched for his camera.

“Can I help you?” the redhead asked, snapping Mickey out of his temporary daze.

_Shit._

Mickey gave himself a mental shake, trying to remember why he’d been so pissed off in the first place. _Oh, yeah. Him being woken up by the other man’s early morning booty call._

“Look, I live next door,” Mickey started.

“Oh, right, hi!” Ian said, smiling at him widely. Then, as though his neighbours came banging on his door all the time, he extended his hand. “I’m Ian. Ian Gallagher. I’ve been meaning to come over and introduce myself, but our hours never seem to mesh.”

“Yeah, about that.” Mickey’s earlier indignation had died down a little, leaving him suddenly uncomfortable. The other man seemed completely blasé about the fact that there was a guy prancing around his apartment in a jockstrap; indifferent to the connotations.

It was strange to Mickey, being around someone who was so at ease with being... well, gay.

“The walls are kinda thin,” he said, not looking the other man in the eye. “And, uh, I could hear... pretty much everythin’.”

Staring at him for a second, Mickey saw the exact moment when the redhead grasped what he was saying.

“Oh, my God. Shit, I am so sorry! That's... yeah.” The guy gave an embarrassed laugh as a blush spread across his pale skin. “I... I don’t even know what to say right now.”

Mickey felt his own cheeks grow warm as he tried to explain.

“Yeah, I think it’s your bed when you... the bangin’s real loud. Not that you make a lot of noise when you... You know what I mean.” Mickey said the last but in a rush, feeling like an idiot.

Peeking up at the taller man, Mickey saw that that earlier embarrassment had receded some, leaving wicked amusement to dance in Gallagher’s eyes.

“I get what you’re saying,” the redhead said with a grin. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Right, thanks.”

And for some reason, neither of them moved. The conversation was over, Mickey’d had his opportunity to bitch at his neighbour, and yet here he was, still standing outside his the guy’s apartment for no good reason.

“I should get—”

“What did you say—”

They both shut up at the same time. Doing his best to ignore the sudden awkwardness, Mickey opened his mouth to tell the guy that he had to get going, when he was interrupted again.

“Hey, Ian, you coming back to bed, or not?” came Jockstrap’s voice from inside the apartment.

Gallagher glanced over his shoulder, a small frown on his face, and Mickey made the snap decision to use the distraction to haul ass out of there. He heard the redhead answering his boyfriend, but didn’t wait to see if the other man would try to continue the conversation.

He got out of there as fast as he could.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Give me a minute,” Ian called over his shoulder, fighting back a twinge of irritation. When he’d invited the other man over to his place, it hasn’t been with the intention of spending the day together. Get some, and then get the guy the hell out. Except Jordan, or Jayden, or whatever his name was, apparently hadn’t gotten the memo.

Turning back to his prickly neighbour, Ian was just in time to see the dark haired man hurrying down the hallway towards the stairwell. He headed down without so much as a backward glance.

Strangely enough, Ian experienced a moment of fleeting disappointment at not being able to talk to the guy some more. Dark hair and blue eyes coupled with fair skin and full lips, and there was definitely something appealing about the man. Plus, judging by his hasty departure, Ian’s neighbour was someone who understood the value of not lingering.

Ian smirked a little at the memory of the poor guy squirming as he tried to explain how Ian had been keeping him up last night.

He closed the door behind him, and then headed to his bedroom. There he found Jayden/Jordan sprawled across his mattress.

“Neighbour gone?” the blond man asked.

“Think you may have scared him off,” Ian told him mildly.

“Good,” Jayden/Jordan said with a dirty grin. “That means we can be as loud as we want this round.”

“Sound like fun. But I gotta catch a couple hours sleep, and then I’ve got class this afternoon.” Ian tried to keep his tone casual, but he just wished that the other man would get the hell out.

“Ooooh, college boy, huh?” Jordan/Jayden said in a singsong voice that grated on Ian’s nerves. “What you studying?”

“Uh, teaching,” Ian replied. He headed over to his closet in search of some pants. Maybe then, his too-comfortable guest would take a hint.

He didn’t.

“You’re learning how to teach a bunch of snot nosed brats? What for?” Jordan/Jayden asked, pulling a face. “Hey, wait,” he continued before Ian could answer, “what are you doing?”

Ian looked up from where he was doing up the fly of his jeans. _Jesus, how hard up had he been last night to even consider bringing this jackass home with him?_

“I’m putting on my pants,” Ian told him slowly. “And I like kids most of the time,” he said, answering the other man’s first question.

Turning away from Jordan/Jayden, who had still made no effort to get his ass out of bed, Ian rummaged around for a shirt. Pulling the thing on, he then grabbed a pair of socks and his worn sneakers.

“But I thought we were gonna go again,” the man complained, obviously disappointed.

Mentally striving for the patience he’d used during his baby brother’s terrible twos, Ian faced the other man fully. Working hard to keep his voice kind, he tried to explain the situation to his oblivious one-night-stand.

“Look, Jordan,” Ian began, taking a guess at what the other man’s name actually was, “last night was—”

“Harper,” the guy interrupted.

“What?”

“My name is Harper.”

Oh. Well. That made things about a thousand times more awkward. Clearing his throat, Ian tried again.

“Right. Uh... Harper, I had a great time last night, but—”

“You can’t have had such a great time if you can’t even get my goddamn name right!” Harper snapped. “What, we fuck, and now you’re just gonna kick me out?”

“I was kinda hoping you’d leave on your own,” Ian muttered before he could stop himself.

“You asshole!” the other man exploded. Then, with a torrent of angry muttering and the occasional murderous glare, Harper haphazardly pulled on his clothes, and left the apartment.

Flinching a little as the door slammed behind his one-night-stand, Ian headed into the living room where he collapsed down onto the couch. He wanted to wash the sheets before sleeping in his bed again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bored with what was on tv, and having nothing better to do, Mickey had wondered around the house, taking pictures at random. He’d tried finding things he liked, or were sort of cool; there hadn’t been much. Some of the pictures he’d taken were of Mandy’s room, the bright colours reminding him of that afternoon in early spring when Nataliya had taken it into her head to paint the place. Others were of some of the cracks in the walls; the patterns drawing his eye every time he walked passed them. Hell, he’d turned the camera on some of the most benign features of the house, just because.

Nataliya Milkovich had always been into photography. Before all that digital shit, there were days where she’d run around with a huge ass, second hand camera, taking pictures of her kids at every chance she’d get. Granted, those days were few and far between—usually when Terry was in prison—but they’d been good days. Some of the best Mickey could remember having.

But then their mother had died, and their father had tried to kill her memory, too. Pictures, clothes, her perfume, nothing had been safe from Terry’s purge. Mickey and his sister, Mandy, had done their best to save what they could of Nataliya’s belongings. Some makeup, a couple of pieces of her shitty jewellery, and her camera.

It hadn’t been much, but it was all they’d had left of their mother.

Finding hidey-holes around the house hadn’t been easy. God knew that Terry had every nook and cranny of the house memorised, had countless places to hide the drugs and weapons he trafficked from a police raid. Mandy had had Mickey knock a small hole in her wall where she could keep the few things of value she had; she’d covered it up with a chest of drawers after. Mickey had a loose floorboard under his bed. It was there that he kept Nataliya’s old camera and a couple rolls of spool.

The first time he’d taken the thing out of there had been on a whim. His father and brothers had been out on a drug run, and Mandy had been on a date. Alone in his quiet, dingy house, Mickey had been going through the things he’d taken to hoarding over the years. Some money, a Beretta, a couple of skin magazines he’d rather nobody saw, and the camera.

Bored with what was on tv, and having nothing better to do, Mickey had wondered around the house, taking pictures at random. He’d tried finding things he liked, or were sort of cool; there hadn’t been much. Some of the pictures he’d taken were of Mandy’s room, the bright colours reminding him of that afternoon in early spring when Nataliya had taken it into her head to paint the place. Others were of some of the cracks in the walls; the patterns drawing his eye every time he walked passed them. Hell, he’d turned the camera on some of the most benign features of the house, just because.

Stupid, he’d known that. It was just... he’d felt... closer to his mother while he’d been fucking around with the stupid thing. A weakness Terry wouldn’t tolerate, had he known about it. So Mickey had put the camera back in its hiding place, and only taken it out when his father was away. This, as the years passed, happened more and more often, with Terry spending more time in prison that he did at home.

Mickey had used that time to learn how to use the camera, and soon it’d become less about Nataliya, and more about how it made him feel. The quiet, the prospect of finding _something_ redeemable about the shithole he lived in... It felt good. And, more surprising, Mickey was actually pretty good at it.

But there was a problem: photography was an expensive hobby, especially since he was determined to go it old school. But sheer dumb luck had landed Mickey with a halfway decent job.

One day, while he’d been dicking around with his old camera under the L tracks, he’d run into some guy about to be mugged. Normally, Mickey liked to avoid getting other people’s shit on his shoes, but something had made him step in. Maybe it was because the soon-to-be-statistic reminded him of a bush baby, or because the sight of the flailing man had broken Mickey out of his happy place—whatever the reason, Mickey had gotten involved in someone else’s business.

And, for the first time, it hadn’t blown up in his face.

The almost-victim’s name was Alfred, and he owned a photography studio. And, for reasons Mickey would never understand, Alfred had offered him a job.

_Beggars couldn’t be choosers, right?_

Which was why Mickey found himself in a studio on the North Side, operating on virtually no sleep, and having to deal with some frat boy who wasn’t fit to work his phone’s camera, let alone the latest Olympus model.

“Uh, dude, it won’t go closer,” the guy explained when Mickey asked him if he needed help. Frat Boy pulled out his camera, giving a helpless little shrug.

Even though he knew that Alfred would have a shit fit if he received another complaint about Mickey being rude to a customer, Mickey found it difficult to keep the derision from his voice when he spoke to the guy.

“‘Won’t go closer,’” he repeated. “You sayin’ it won’t zoom?”

“Right,” Frat Boy said, nodding vigorously. “I have to get real close for any of the pictures to have any, like, detail, y’know? Can you fix it?”

Mickey didn’t know what to say to that. Swallowing back his exasperation at having to deal with this kind of fucking cluelessness—because seriously, this was bullshit—he forced himself to be helpful.

“You mind lettin’ me have a look at it?” he asked.

Taking the camera from Frat Boy, Mickey gave the thing a cursory glance. Barely managing to hold back a roll of his eyes, he turned back to the ape that was operating it.

“There’s a lever,” he told Frat Boy. “You just turn it, and it’ll zoom as much as you want.”

“Holy shit,” the other man said, grinning at Mickey as though he’d just revealed the secrets to the universe. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

That earned Mickey a hard bro slap on the back that almost sent him staggering.

“Thanks, man. You rock.”

Mickey stood there for a moment, watching Frat Boy’s broad back as he started out of the store. Before he could stop himself, Mickey called out to the other man. “You mind if I ask you a question?”

“Sure, man,” Frat Boy said, turning back to him.

“Why d’you even buy that thing?”

“Are you kidding? Chicks dig photographers.”

With that, Frat Boy walked out, off to seduce unsuspecting women with his mad photography skills.

Mickey sighed. It was going to be a long day.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was almost two thirty when the store assistant walked in. A redheaded high school girl who was scarily efficient, Mickey hadn’t bothered to learn her name. She was only there for a couple hours a day anyway, so he hadn’t really seen the point.

But the sight of her reminded Mickey of another redhead he’d dealt with that day. Jesus, that encounter had left him cringing for hours afterwards. He hadn’t realised, the thought hadn’t even occurred to him, that his neighbour might be fucking dudes on the other side of those thin walls.

Kinda cast things in a new light.

He was jolted from that thought by the sound of the shop assistant’s voice.

“Are you just gonna sit there?”

Looking up from the magazine he hadn’t actually been reading, Mickey met a pair of exasperated brown eyes.

“The fuck’s your problem, Red?”

“My problem is that I have a physics quiz in the morning, and you’re letting me do all the work. I had to juggle three customers just now!”

“Too much for you?” Mickey asked with a smirk. “Need a grown up to hold your hand?”

The young woman’s answering smile bordered on sinister.

“Nope,” Red answered sweetly. “Just means that without your input, you can be booked to do things you may not like.”

That didn’t sound good

“What d’you do?” Mickey demanded, grin fading.

“Three o’clock appointment on Friday for a Mrs McCrory. She wants you to do a series of portraits of her cat.” Red’s smile widened in response to Mickey’s horrified expression.

“She wants me to take pictures of... her cat? Is that a... euphemism, or some shit, or is she serious?”

“Cat’s name is Mr Beaux Jangles.”

Mickey couldn’t help it; he gaped after Red as she sauntered away to help another customer.  

He was pretty sure he was beginning to hate redheads.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Fairy Tale was packed that night. Lights were dim, the music was loud, and the dance floor was spilling over with writhing bodies. It all made for really good tips.

And the odd proposition.

Casually laughing off a bear cub’s advances, Ian turned to catch the surprised look coming from the other man behind the bar. Andrew Fairchild was tall, taller than Ian, with dark skin and a smile that promised dirty sex. Of all the guys working at the club, Ian found himself most comfortable around Andrew, knowing that the guy wasn't likely to make a pass at him.

“He was cute,” the other man commented during a rare lull in the flow of patrons to the bar.

“Yup,” Ian agreed nonchalantly.

“You turnin' people down now?” Andrew asked, eyebrows raised.

“No... I’d just like to talk to a guy for a few minutes before I take him home with me.”

A disbelieving scoff, which Ian met with a glare.

Holding his hands up in surrender, Andrew tried to school his expression into something more serious. Failing at that, the other man asked, “Since when do the guys you fuck use their mouths for talking?”

“Since not taking the time to get a decent read on a guy bit me in the ass last night,” Ian grumbled.

Andrew gave a booming laugh. “What, that not your thing?”

“I prefer to do the biting,” Ian told him with a smirk.

That was the last time they got to speak to each other for a few hours as a wave of customers swarmed the bar. Handing over bottles of water, soft drinks, and booze to sweating dancers, Ian didn’t have time to do anything more than keep up.

By the end of the night, Ian’s feet were killing him, and he longed for his bed in a way that bordered on pathetic. He was grabbing his stuff from his locker when Andrew sidled up alongside him.

“So what was wrong with the guy you took home last night? Harper, right? The sex not good?” he asked, continuing with their earlier conversation. He’d just reached into his own locker, so he missed the appalled look Ian aimed in his direction.

“Jesus, you remembered his name?” Ian muttered.

“What? Yeah, of course, man. I always—” Andrew replied distractedly before his mouth snapped shut. The wicked grin that made him so popular with the patrons spread suddenly across his face. “You forgot his name?” Andrew asked in a scandalised whisper.

“The sex was fine,” Ian told him, ignoring his friend’s last question. “But then he wouldn’t leave. And to make things fucking worse, the guy living next door came over to complain about the noise. Harper, the moron, answered the door in his goddamn jockstrap. I thought neighbour guy’s eyes were gonna fall out of his head.”

Ignoring the other man, who was doubled over by this point, Ian slung his backpack over his shoulder, and tried to dart around him.

“Ian, wait for me!” Andrew called, his voice still shaking with laughter.

Reluctantly, he waited outside the locker room for his friend to gather his things. A few minutes later, Andrew emerged, his wide grin still firmly in place.

“So, you have to do CPR on the old guy?” he asked.

“What old guy?” They were leaving the club, heading towards the L so they could get back to the South Side.

“Your neighbour, dumbass! Old people freak at anything even remotely gay.”

“I think you’re transferring your family’s issues onto other people, man. And besides, he wasn’t old.”

They walked for a bit, and Ian was aware of the man beside him studying his face intently. He waited until they’d taken their seats on the train before turning to Andrew.

“What?”

“What?” Andrew returned innocently.

“You’re staring.”

“It’s nothing.” A beat of silence. “Only... you’ve got this look in your eye.”

“What look?” Ian sighed, exasperated.

“The look you get when you’ve seen something you like. Neighbour guy cute?” Andrew asked with a teasing smile.

“He’s alright,” Ian told him, attempting a casual shrug.

“Good God, now he’s being coy.” Andrew’s smile dimmed slightly. “Word to the wise, though: don’t go shitting where you eat.”

“Oh, please,” Ian scoffed. “Of the two of us, who’s screwing their cousin’s boyfriend?”

“That was an accident!”

Laughing, the two of them kept talking shit, ribbing each other, as the train brought them closer and closer to the South Side.

It was a couple stops before they were meant to get off when Ian noticed Andrew’s demeanour changing. Eyes previously dancing with wicked amusement grew solemn, and his relaxed posture tightened up. Andrew was intimately acquainted with what could happen to someone who waved the pride flag in their neighbourhood.

By the time they stepped off the train, the other man’s transformation was complete. Giving Ian a casual wave goodbye, Andrew headed in the opposite direction, cocky swagger muted.

It was a long walk home, Ian’s earlier good mood dampened as he thought about Andrew’s situation. Ian had been lucky that his coming out had been a relatively smooth one; the important people in his life knew, his fuck buddies knew, and some of the people in the apartment block might have had an idea.

And now the apparent light sleeper next door might be a little more certain on that front.

Pausing in front of his neighbour’s apartment door, Ian gave it a considering look. There was no sign that anyone was awake; the place was quiet, with no light shining out from beneath the door. Andrew had been right about what he’d said on the train: Ian had seen something he liked.

Forcefully shaking that thought off, Ian unlocked his own apartment. He made a beeline to his bedroom, tugging his clothes off as he went, and dropping them carelessly on the floor. Ian was losing the battle against his exhaustion, and he collapsed onto his bed without thought.

The headboard made a dull thudding sound against the wall.

Ian froze for a minute; barely daring to breathe as he waited for some indication that he’d woken his neighbour up. There was the faint sound of a bed creaking, but no irate yells or pounding on the too-thin wall. Heaving an exasperated sigh into his pillow, Ian resigned himself to an angry early morning visit in a few hours.

Too tired to care, he drifted off.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the next two days, Mickey would wake up at around three thirty, as though he had some sort of internal alarm set. He’d find himself listening out for Gallagher’s arrival, strain his ears for the faintest sound that would betray what—or who—the man next door was doing.

_Thunk._

Mickey’s eyes immediately snapped open, as though he’d been waiting for the sound. Shifting around in his creaky bed, he waited to hear more of that rhythmic thudding.

Except there was nothing.

Instead of just shrugging things off, Mickey found himself listening harder, waiting for some indication that maybe his neighbour had brought home another man to fuck.

But there was still only silence.

Images of the redhead covering his fuck buddy’s mouth to keep him quiet, others of Gallagher and some faceless stranger fucking on the floor flashed through Mickey’s brain.

 _Or maybe, Gallagher was by himself, and had just landed on his bed too hard,_ Mickey thought, desperately reaching for some logic in an effort to drown those thoughts out. He tried to shove aside the unwelcome surge of heat that was slowly spreading across his body.

Resolving to go back to sleep, he rolled over, only to realise that he had a problem: he was rocking a hard on. Unable to help himself, Mickey let out a little growl of frustration. After fifteen minutes of trying to find a comfortable position to lie in while ignoring his raging boner, Mickey gave up.

He sat up in his bed to the sound of the mattress’s squeaking protest. There were two options available to Mickey right now: he could take care of it here, and risk the guy next door hearing him. Or, he could leave his warm, comfortable bed to jerk off in the bathroom.

Mickey was still mulling it over when he heard a muffled snore coming from next door.

 _Asshole_ , Mickey thought sourly.

Abruptly throwing the blankets off himself, Mickey clambered out of bed in favour of option number three: a cold shower.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sleep deprivation was nobody’s friend, but Mickey seemed especially ill suited to it. It was one thing to lose sleep for a real reason—a _Die Hard_ marathon, maybe going on a long distance drug run with his brothers—but his body and a redheaded neighbour conspiring against him did not fucking qualify.

For the next two days, Mickey would wake up at around three thirty, as though he had some sort of internal alarm set. He’d find himself listening out for Gallagher’s arrival, strain his ears for the faintest sound that would betray what—or who—the man next door was doing.

Taunted by the silence, Mickey’s brain would take over. Imagination racing at all the ways a man could be fucked while being forced to keep quiet, his body would tense, his dick growing hard.

It was usually around that same time when Mickey would decide that a cold shower was necessary.

The logical part of Mickey’s brain didn’t understand what the big fucking deal was. He’d seen the redhead once. _One fuckin’ time_. Granted, he’d heard the redhead in action on a couple occasions, but that had been a huge goddamn irritation, rather than a turn on.

Yeah, but that’d been before he’d realised that the redhead next door fucked guys.

So, sexual frustration added to not getting enough sleep, and Mickey was even more of a surly asshole than usual. And his co-workers had noticed.

“Fuck off, Red,” Mickey told the store assistant on Friday afternoon. She was standing in front of him, arms akimbo and an irritable expression on her face.

“You’re gonna miss your appointment,” she informed him, unintimidated by the scowl Mickey threw in her direction.

“Don’t got no appointments,” he grumbled, slouching down further in his seat behind the register.

“Uh, yeah, you do. Mrs McCrory wants you to take some pictures of her cat. Name’s Mr Beaux Jangles. Ringing any bells?”

Mickey stared at Red for a moment before letting out a loud and emphatic “ _Fuck!_ ”

Watching him calmly while he hastily gathered the shit he’d need to take the stupid goddamn pictures, Red added to his panic by telling him, “You need to be there in twenty minutes.”

“You mind doin’ something’ useful, like givin’ me the old dear’s fuckin’ address?” Mickey snapped. He was swinging his bag over his shoulder while glancing around wildly for anything he might have left behind.

“Here.” Red was holding out a small sheet of paper with the address written neatly in cursive. She handed it over to him.

“What the f—” Mickey slammed the piece of paper down onto the counter. “I can’t read these stupid squiggles,” he said impatiently. “Read it out for me.”

Red rattled the address off. “You gonna remember that?” she asked doubtfully.

In too much of a hurry to respond, Mickey merely flipped her off before barrelling out the front door.

Luckily, the old woman’s place wasn’t too far away from the studio. But even with that, Mickey was still likely to be at least ten minutes late. Waffling on the sidewalk like a moron, Mickey debated the merits of catching a cab versus just running over there.

Loathe as he was to fork out his own cash, Mickey figured a cab was the better option; Alfred would have a cardiac episode if he heard that Mickey had shown up at a client’s home sweating like a pig.

Quickly hailing a taxi, Mickey barked out the address to the man behind the wheel. Unperturbed by Mickey’s tone, the driver easily pulled into the mid-afternoon traffic.

After what felt like forever, but couldn’t have been more than half an hour, Mickey arrived at Mrs McCrory’s... well, he couldn’t really call it a house. Because, based on Mickey’s understanding of what a house was, you shouldn’t be able to fit ten other houses inside one.

The cab driver let out a long, low whistle.

“You sure you got the right place?” the man asked instead of driving away after Mickey had paid him.

“Yeah, thanks. You can fuckin’ go now,” Mickey snapped, waving the guy off.

Taking one last lingering look at the sprawling mansion in front of him, the driver did as he was told.

Mickey drew in a deep breath as he took in the building. He didn’t think a Milkovich had ever been inside a place like this. Even on the off chance that the housekeeper or whoever did let him past the front door, he’d likely be watched for any signs of even vaguely suspicious behaviour.

And all to take a couple pictures of a goddamn cat.

Just wanting to get this over with, Mickey hurried up the steps before knocking loudly. He stepped back a little, waiting for someone to answer. A few minutes passed with no response. The slender thread of his patience threatening to snap, Mickey had raised his arm to knock again when the door was suddenly pulled open.

A brunette woman in her late forties stared out at him. She was stacked, wearing a pair of skin-tight yoga pants and a tank top. Mickey was sure that if her face weren’t so heavily botoxed, the woman would’ve frowned at him.

“Can I help you?” she asked, flicking her gaze over him.

“Uh, yeah. I’m here to see Mrs McCrory?” No change in the woman’s expression, although Mickey couldn’t tell if that meant that she didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, or if the surgery had simply frozen her features into a single expression. “I’m supposed to be doin’ a portrait of her cat? Mr Beaux Jangles?” Jesus, Mickey couldn’t believe he’d had to say that out loud.

Still nothing.

_If this was Red’s idea of a joke, he was gonna fuckin’ kill her._

Finally, the woman spoke.

“I expected you here a good fifteen minutes ago. It’s rude to keep people waiting, you know.”

The woman took a step back to allow Mickey inside her home.

He balked.

“Wait... you’re Mrs McCrory?”

“Yes.” A perfectly shaped eyebrow went up a fraction. “Not what you were expecting?”

Scrambling to recover, his only thought of Alfred’s reaction if he managed to piss off a well-to-do customer, Mickey blurted out, “Didn’t think you’d be so pretty.” _Gah, he couldn’t believe he’d just fuckin’ said that._ He felt the sudden urge to brush his teeth to get the taste of those words out his mouth.

Luckily for Mickey, though, they had the desired effect.

Mrs McCrory gave a throaty laugh before opening the door wider. “Please, come in,” she invited.

Unable to shake the feeling that he was heading to his doom, all Mickey could do was comply.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was official: Mickey hated gingers. From now until for fucking ever, Mickey resolved to participate in every anti-ginger day he could, because they were obviously the spawn of Satan.

The person behind Mickey’s ire wasn’t his redheaded neighbour, although that guy was definitely on his shit list. No, this time his aggravation was directed at the store assistant whose name he couldn’t be fucked to remember.

Mickey was gonna kill her.

While he usually had no problem doing the whole pet portrait thing—although he’d never fucking understand how people could fork out so much cash for that bullshit—this session had him verging on homicidal.

Not only was Mr Beaux fucking Jangles an uncooperative little shit, but Mrs McCrory was the handsiest woman he’d ever had the misfortune of meeting. Seriously, Mickey had had an easier time dodging the cops during the entirety of his misspent youth than he’d had evading her groping hands for a single afternoon.

Finally, he managed to escape Mrs McCrory’s clutches at around five thirty. Instead of catching a cab, and sitting in the gridlocked traffic, Mickey hauled himself back to the studio.

Shoving the door open, Mickey paused in the entrance. Sitting there behind the register, foot tapping out an edgy beat, was Red. She jumped up when she spotted him.

“Urgh, took you long enough,” she huffed. As soon as the door closed behind him, the young woman began to gather her things.

But Mickey wasn’t gonna let her off that easy.

“Why’d you tell me I was gonna be takin’ pictures for an old lady?” he demanded.

“What are you talking about?” Red gave him an impatient look.

“Mrs McCrory! You told me she was old!”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yeah, you fuckin’ did—”

“No, Mickey. You assumed that because a woman wanted a portrait of her cat, she was old and senile.”

Mickey opened his mouth to argue, but found he couldn’t. She was right.

“Have a good weekend, Mickey,” Red said with a smirk. She sauntered past where he was standing, leaving him to lock up the studio.

_Fuckin’ redheads._

_\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Adding to Mickey’s woes was the fact that the goddamn El was down. He’d had to wait three quarters of an hour for the fucking thing to start working again, and had ended up wedged next to an old lady—an actual one, this time—and some beefy dude with no concept of personal space.

By the time he arrived at his apartment, hungry had topped the list of reasons why today had fucking sucked. He was just rummaging around in his bag for his keys when he heard the neighbouring apartment’s door opening.

_God fuckin’ damn it._

“Hey, neighbour,” the other man said, proving that if there was a God, the bastard took sadistic pleasure in screwing with Mickey.

“Hey,” Mickey muttered back. For fuck’s sake, where were his keys?

“I just wanted to apologise for the other day,” Gallagher said, rueful amusement in his voice. “I can’t even tell you how embarrassed I am about the whole thing.”

“We don’t gotta talk about it,” Mickey told him, finally grabbing hold of the elusive keys. Now, all he had to do was get the door open, and get his neighbour out of his face.

“Fair enough,” the guy replied with a shrug. Then he took a small step closer to Mickey. “I never got your name.”

Pausing in the middle of fitting the key into the lock—and mentally cursing his fumbling fingers—Mickey turned to give Gallagher a suspicious look.

“The fuck’s it to you?”

For some reason, his question made the redhead smile. Mickey couldn’t help but notice how it made the other man’s eyes crinkle at the corners.

“Just like to know a little bit about my neighbours.” A shrug of those stupidly broad shoulders. “It’s no big deal.”

“Really? So you know who lives in... 511?” Mickey asked, throwing out an apartment number at random.

“Mr John Denver,” the other man answered promptly. “He was a son and two daughters. He used to play the violin until the arthritis in his hands forced him to give it up. Bit of a hoarding problem.”

Mickey gaped at the guy a little. Forcing himself to shake it off, his next words were terse.

“Fine. Name’s Mickey Milkovich, and I don’t like bein’ neighbourly. So if you wanna chit-chat, or need to borrow a cup of sugar, or what-the-fuck-ever, I ain’t your guy. And that’s all you need to fuckin’ know.”

His fingers had finally cooperated. Shoving his door open so he could slip inside, Mickey slammed it shut in the other man’s face.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sex was over pretty quickly. Mickey could care less if the man behind him got off, so long as the guy kept up with that hard, pounding rhythm. He’d been skating pretty close to the edge all week, which meant that it didn’t take much to push Mickey over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Saturday morning, and I'm bored. So I thought I'd update now. Don't worry, there'll be another one on Monday, too.

Ian walked into the Fairy Tale with a grin tugging at the edges of his mouth, and he had no idea why. Okay, that wasn’t true; Ian knew exactly what—or rather, who—had put him in his current good mood. What he couldn’t figure out was why it would be the surly guy next door to snap him out of the ennui that had been plaguing him for the past couple months.

It had to be the lure of wanting something he probably couldn’t have.

Between the shabby clothes and the **FUCK U-UP** tattoos on his knuckles, there was nothing about Mickey Milkovich to suggest that he batted for Ian’s team. And Ian knew better than to get involved with a ‘straight’ guy; he saw how Andrew’s normally sunny disposition sometimes grew clouded by hurt at being someone’s dirty secret.

He had no interest in being mistress to some guy who played at being straight.

Still, there was something intriguing about the other man. It was way too easy for Ian to imagine those blue eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure, full lips parted to accommodate breathless gasps, tattooed knuckles clenched around his sheets.

A loud banging startled Ian from his daydream. Rounding on the guy beside him, Ian barely resisted the urge to punch him.

“What the hell, man?” he growled at Andrew.

“I said your name. Like, three or four times. Even tried waving my hand in front of your face a little,” his friend informed him. “Got no reaction.”

Ian stared at the other man for a second, trying to decide if Andrew was messing with him. Seeing no hint that he was being screwed with, Ian mumbled an apology as he changed into his work clothes.

“You’re distracted. What’s up?” Andrew asked as he followed suit. Except, unlike Ian, Andrew’s uniform tonight consisted only of a pair of gold booty shorts.

“Had a run in with the guy next door,” Ian replied after a moment.

“Oh, Ian, no!” Andrew moaned. “You are the last person I would’ve expected to try and get in there with the boy next door. You couldn’t get more cliché if you tried.”

“I think he might be straight.”

Pausing in the act of pulling on his tiny shorts, Andrew turned to glare at him. Oblivious to the fact that the shorts were hanging perilously low on his hips, the other man’s teasing gave way to a serious expression.

“Being cliché is embarrassing, but you can be forgiven for that. Being a _fucking moron_ is something else entirely.”

“Jesus, would you relax?” Ian sighed. “It’s just a fantasy. Besides, one whiff of predatory gay, and he’d put me flat on my back. And not in a fun way.”

Andrew stared at him for a few seconds before accepting his words with a nod. Then he scowled.

“There a reason you aren’t debasing yourself like the rest of us?” the other man demanded, gesturing at Ian’s slightly more modest outfit.

They usually rotated the dancer/server roles every couple of days, but Ian had managed to secure himself a mostly permanent position as bar tender. He figured that had less to do with his ability to keep track of drink orders, and more to do with the fact that...

“I can’t dance for shit.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Early on Saturday evening, Mickey found himself parked on a stool in a dingy bar. The place was a couple of miles away from his apartment. Mickey had swung by a similar haunt just last week, but since meeting his neighbour, he found that he needed some relief as soon as possible.

Looking around the dimly lit bar, Mickey couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose a little. He shuddered to think what some of these yahoos would look like in direct light.

For a few minutes, all he did was check out the other patrons, get a feel for the place. Mickey never went to the same bar twice in a row; usually, he’d wait a couple of months before returning somewhere, which meant he had to have a wide array of dives to choose from. His usual M.O. involved him nursing a beer or two, picking someone who looked like they shared his need, and then he got the hell outta there.

Tonight was no exception. Well, it wasn’t supposed to be.

Because Mickey was being a little more picky than usual. Ignoring the dark haired, swarthy-skinned man giving him the eye from where a group of what appeared to be regulars were playing darts, Mickey’s attention was caught by the guy sitting across from him at the bar.

Until recently, he’d never had a type. A fuck was a fuck was a fuck; and it wasn’t like he ever looked at the guys he had sex with. So, yeah, the dude’s face didn’t really matter so long as the person behind him had a fully functioning dick.

Except, that philosophy wasn’t working for Mickey tonight.

The man he was surreptitiously checking out had hair that wasn’t quite that bright shade of red, but was close enough. He was lanky, his shoulders a little bony, but he had big hands that Mickey wouldn’t mind having gripping his hips.

For an instant, their gazes met. Arching a brow, Mickey inclined his head slightly in the direction of the bathrooms. The guy’s eyes widened slightly, the faintest flush creeping over his apple cheeks. This was clearly something the other man had little experience with.

They both sat there for a few seconds, staring at each other, when Mickey raised both eyebrows expectantly. Lips parting on a little, “Oh,” as understanding dawned, the other man shot up out of his seat. Cheeks colouring even further, he tried to play it cool by sauntering over to the bathrooms.

_Okay,_ Mickey thought, revising his earlier opinion. _There was absolutely no way the fuckin’ moron had ever done this before._

Slowly finishing off his lukewarm beer, Mickey considered his options. He could just leave John the Virgin outside. It’d be easy for him to just get up and leave; no harm, no foul. Let Captain Obvious deal with someone finding him out there, waiting like a little bitch. But that might mean that Mickey would have to go home without having that all-important itch scratched.

Mickey checked the other patrons out from under his lashes; it seemed to him that they were all too distracted to notice him leaving. _It should be okay, so long as they were quick,_ Mickey decided.

A loud belch for effect, and Mickey was meandering towards the back of the bar. The hallway was dark, and there were bits of broken glass littering the edges. Instead of taking a right into the bathroom, Mickey went straight and left through the emergency exit.

Mickey was mildly surprised to find JV waiting outside. The dumbass had gotten that much right.

“Uh... I’m Dyl—”

“Do I look like I give a shit?” Mickey snapped, cutting the guy off. He pulled the condom he kept for emergencies out of his back pocket, and shoved it into the other man’s hand.

He’d done the prep before he’d left home, and he may or may not have replayed some of the moaning he’d heard earlier in the week in his head while he did, so Mickey was good to go. Heading over to a spot in the alley that was even more deeply shadowed than the rest of it, Mickey began working at the fly of his jeans.

It was something of a relief to hear the crinkle of the condom wrapper behind him. At least he hadn’t had to explain that, because otherwise, instead of getting laid, Mickey would be having to figure out how to hide a body.

The sound of excited, nervous breathing sounded over Mickey’s shoulder.

“Don’t half ass it, you hear me?” he barked at the other man.

“Yeah, sure. I just... um... don’t you need...”

“Shut up and get on me, or fuck off,” Mickey said, finally losing patience.

Mouth snapping shut, the guy stepped closer to Mickey. The feel of a hard cock pressing against him had Mickey hissing in a breath; that sensation of being filled and stretched had him biting back a groan.

The sex was over pretty quickly. Mickey could care less if the man behind him got off, so long as the guy kept up with that hard, pounding rhythm. He’d been skating pretty close to the edge all week, which meant that it didn’t take much to push Mickey over.

Taking a moment to steady himself, Mickey felt the guy pull out and step back.

“That-that was...” JV said, his voice breathless as he leaned against the alley wall with his dick hanging out. “Great. Really, really—”

“Whatever,” Mickey muttered. While the idiot had been babbling, Mickey had hastily been doing up his jeans. Then, without a backward glance, he brushed past the other man.

“Hey, wait! You’re leaving?” JV called plaintively from behind him.

Mickey let his middle finger do the talking.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sunday was laundry day, and Ian had reluctantly dragged his exhausted body out of bed early to get it done. Promising himself that he could sleep all he wanted once he finished up, he staggered down to the basement level where all the washers were kept.

He’d just shoved the door open—the damn thing kept sticking—when he came across a dark haired man crouched in front of one of the machines. The irritable muttering came to an abrupt halt when the other guy looked over his shoulder and spotted Ian.

Fighting back a grin at Mickey’s mussed up hair and grouchy expression, Ian let the door shut behind him.

“Morning,” he greeted cautiously.

Unintelligible grumbling his only response, the other man turned back to pulling his clothes from the washer. It sounded like there was still the sloshing of water from inside the drum. The squelching sound Mickey’s clothes made when they were dropped into the wash basket supported Ian’s theory.

“You, uh, need some help?” Ian asked, placing his own pile of clothes on top of one of the unoccupied machines.

“Mind your own goddamn business.”

Ian didn’t know why the bristling comment had his smile breaking free from the tight reign he’d tried keeping on it. The other man’s low grumbles picked up again, and Ian was pretty sure he caught the words ‘nosy asshole’.

Deciding that there was obviously something wrong with him, Ian reached out for the first thing in Mickey’s laundry basket—a sleeveless shirt—and began to wring it out.

“The fuck you think you’re doin’?” Mickey snapped. His blue eyes were flashing with annoyance, and his lips were pursed. Still, Ian couldn’t help but notice that he looked pretty good on his knees.

“Being neighbourly,” Ian replied, turning to put the shirt into one of the driers.

“Really? ‘Cause it looks like you’re touchin’ my stuff without askin’ first.”

“Knew you’d say no,” Ian told him with a shrug.

A long, deeply suspicious silence.

“You ain’t gonna steal somethin’ so you can jerk off with it, are you?”

The question caught Ian off guard. Laughing, he had to brace himself against the drier in front of him before he landed on his ass. He was just getting hold of himself when the nonplussed look on Mickey’s face set him off again.

“That’s not something you gotta worry about,” Ian said when he could breathe again.

“Whatever, man,” Mickey muttered. He turned back to his sopping clothes before something seemed to occur to him. “An’ I don’t want you touchin’ my fuckin’ underwear.”

Shoulders shaking with barely suppressed sniggers, Ian promised not to lay so much as a finger on Mickey’s unmentionables.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those stark words made Mickey feel like the bottom of his stomach had dropped out. He was barely aware of being surrounded by his fellow commuters, the hissing sound as the train pulled up to the platform a thousand miles away.

For the next two weeks, Ian did whatever he could to run into Mickey in and around their apartment building. He knew he probably shouldn’t do it, but the disgruntled expression on the other man’s face whenever he spotted Ian never failed to make Ian’s day.

And, if Ian didn’t know any better, he’d almost think that Mickey enjoyed the attention. Sure, he’d bluster, and complain, and ask Ian if he didn’t have other people to harass; but he never told Ian outright to fuck off.

He had the feeling that if he were really pissing Mickey off, the other man wouldn’t hesitate to tell him.

Waking up early to go for a jog, something he’d been meaning to do for weeks, Ian found himself leaving his apartment at the same time as Mickey.

“Hey, Mick!” he said in his most cheerful voice.

The other man grimaced.

“You always so goddamn noisy in the mornin’s?” Mickey grumbled.

“What’s wrong? You not getting enough sleep? You can’t pin that on me; I’ve been good.”

They were heading down the stairwell together when the dark haired man paused to glare up at him.

“Do you have to fuckin’ talk about that?”

Ian held his hands up in surrender, holding back a laugh at the pained look on Mickey’s face. Halfway down their third flight of stairs, Mickey surprised him by speaking again.

“If you’re not fuckin’ guys at home, how you gettin’ off, then?” he asked, almost reluctantly. Ian noticed that Mickey was keeping his gaze steadfastly ahead of him.

The question had taken Ian aback. Taking in the other man’s tense posture, he worked to keep his tone casual.

“Work, mostly.”

“What, there’s a bunch of random guys lurkin’ around, waitin’ to suck you off? Where d’you get ‘em? Vendin’ machine?” Mickey asked sceptically.

“I’m a bartender at a gay club. There’s never really a shortage of willing partners.”

They’d reached the ground floor by that point, and the other man was suddenly picking up his pace, almost bolting out of the stairwell.

“Hey, what’s the rush?” Ian asked, lengthening his stride to keep up with Mickey.

“Gonna be late for work,” Mickey answered brusquely.

“You want me to walk with you?” Ian was surprised by the dark haired man’s sudden mood swing. If he didn’t wanna talk about Ian’s sex life, why had he brought it up?

“No,” he barked.

That one sharp word, said with such force, stopped Ian dead in his tracks. Staring after the other man, he felt a surge of bewilderment, along with the tiny sting of rejection.

What the hell had just happened?

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For the first time since Mickey had started working for Alfred, he’d been banished to the back room. On a normal day, Mickey would’ve been glad to get away from the people who came into the studio, but now it just ground his balls to be treated like a misbehaving child.

It was his own damn fault, he knew. He’d let Gallagher lull him into asking questions he knew better than to give voice to. And for the briefest moment after the redhead’s revelation, all Mickey had felt was resentment. It wasn’t about not being surrounded by a bunch of prancing queens, of course, but rather because... sometimes Mickey just felt so goddamn suffocated.

Terry was in prison, had been for years, and yet his spectre was this constant, looming presence.

The fact that there were people out there, one living right next fucking door, who didn’t have to be afraid, just pissed him the hell off. It wasn’t fair.

After lunchtime, Mickey was finally allowed to leave the confines of the back room, but only because Red was there to keep an eye on him. Before leaving the studio, Alfred had warned Mickey that if he pulled any shit with the customers, he’d be relegated to the back for a month.

So, in all, he was glad when the time to lock up rolled round. Not bothering to say goodbye to Red, Mickey headed towards the station. If his luck continued on its current trajectory, the L would likely be in the middle of some meltdown, and he’d arrive at his apartment just in time to catch Gallagher blowing some random in the hallway.

At least he’d would be able to go to sleep after all that, Mickey consoled himself.

He’d just stepped up to the platform when he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. There were only a few people who had his number—his landlady, Alfred, and his siblings—and Mickey didn’t feel like dealing with any of them.

Feeling that irritating buzz stop, he breathed a sigh of relief. _Couldn’t have been that important_ , he thought. But then the fucking thing started up again.

Teeth gritted, Mickey dug around in his pocket for the phone. Scowling down at the caller ID, he saw that it was Mandy.

“What?” he barked into the phone. Mickey tried to reign in his irritation, but he was just too fucking tired.

Luckily, Mandy didn’t appear to take offense at his tone.

“I need you to come over,” she told him without preamble. She didn’t sound any friendlier than Mickey had when he’d answered. But then, she had reason to be pissed at him.

“What, you mean come home?” Mandy’s silence answered that. “Not gonna happen,” he told her flatly. He never wanted to set foot in that fucking place ever again.

A gusty sigh from across the line.

“It’s important,” Mandy said.

“Tough shit,” he shot back. He noticed an old woman giving him the hairy eyeball; Mickey gave her a challenging look until she glanced away. “You can tell me whatever it is on the phone,” he continued after he’d won the staring contest.

“Dad’s gettin’ out.”

Those stark words made Mickey feel like the bottom of his stomach had dropped out. He was barely aware of being surrounded by his fellow commuters, the hissing sound as the train pulled up to the platform a thousand miles away.

“What?” he whispered. People were jostling him as they hurried to board, some muttering impatiently as he got in their way, but none of them mattered. Mickey’s lips felt numb.

“In a couple weeks,” Mandy replied. There was the faintest tremor in her voice. “Look, Mick, we need to talk about what we’re gonna do—”

But Mickey couldn’t listen anymore. He hung up on his sister, turning around to leave the station. Unexpectedly, the image of what happened when Mentos were stuck into a bottle of diet coke popped into his head. That was what his chest felt like: bubbles of panic building up, threatening to make him spew the contents of his stomach all over the place.

So he walked. When the urge took him, he even ran, his bag thumping between his shoulder blades. Mickey had no idea how long it took him to get to his apartment, but by the time he got there, his body was covered in a sheen of sweat.

Trudging up the steps, Mickey tried not to think. Instead, he focused on counting the stairs.

_One... two... three..._

_Twenty-seven... twenty-eight... twenty-nine..._

_Forty-two... forty-three... forty-four..._

And so it went, until Mickey finally reached the fifth floor. He hoped he didn’t run into anyone, because he didn’t know if he’d be able to hold back the vitriol boiling up inside him right now.

Mickey spotted a redheaded figure leaning against one of the apartment doors, and he didn’t know why he was surprised to find Gallagher loitering in the hallway. It wasn’t like anything else had gone right today; why should this be any different?

“Jeez, you always work this late?” the redhead asked.

Not saying anything, Mickey pulled out his keys.

Gallagher didn’t notice Mickey’s dark mood; the asshole leaned against the wall, and kept talking, his demeanour relaxed.

“So, I was wondering...” Here Gallagher paused, seeming almost unsure of himself.

Mickey didn’t give a shit what the other man was wondering about. He wanted to tell Gallagher to just leave him alone, was about to mutter an exhausted, “Fuck off,” but the redhead barrelled over him.

“You wanna grab some coffee? Y’know, whenever you’re free?” he asked in a rush.

Dully, Mickey wondered what fucking world this guy lived in. In what parallel universe would it be okay for Mickey to go out for coffee with another man?

It felt like the walls were closing in around him, and Mickey lashed out before he could stop himself. Bitter, ugly words spilled from his mouth, a sudden urge to hurt this stupid fucker who acted like two men being together like that was no big deal.

“What, I look like some kinda fag to you?” Mickey demanded, rounding on the redhead. “You askin’ me out on some sorta queerbo fuckin’ date? Listen to me, you goddamn fruit, that shit’ll get you killed ‘round here. You stay the fuck away from me.”

Expression flickering from surprise to hurt to impassivity, Gallagher stared at him for a moment. The other man’s relaxed posture had turned rigid. Without a word, Gallagher walked away, being sure to give Mickey a wide berth.

Left alone in the dimly lit hallway, Mickey struggled to breathe. His throat was burning, as though his harsh words had scraped him raw on their way out of his mouth.

An unfamiliar part of Mickey wanted to go after Gallagher to apologise. He wouldn’t have the faintest goddamn idea of how to explain, but Mickey had hated the wounded look on the other man’s face; it wasn’t his fault that Mickey was like this.

But no. He couldn’t do that.

Forcing himself to remember last time, Mickey carefully let himself into his apartment before shutting the world out behind him.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ian couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this angry. His hands were trembling with the force of it, and it had taken all his self-control not to deck Mickey right there in the hallway. Right then, he didn’t know who he was angrier at: himself or Mickey.

Jesus Christ, he couldn’t believe he’d ever been attracted to that homophobic prick.

He spent the whole train ride to work trying to convince himself that he wasn’t a little hurt by the other man’s outburst.

Andrew’s cheerful grin died on his lips as soon as he caught sight of Ian; the first words out of his friend’s mouth were of concern.

“You okay?” he asked, brow furrowed.

“Great,” Ian said tightly.

“Uh, you don’t look great. You look like you’re channelling Charles Manson.”

Releasing a slow breath, Ian fought to push back the tension. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. Then, resolving to shove his asshole neighbour to the back of his mind, he turned to Andrew with what he hoped was a genuine smile.

“No worries, man.”

Ian slammed his locker door shut, just a little too hard, but Andrew didn’t comment, pretending to believe him.

The rest of the night was spent shamelessly flirting with customers and doing the occasional shot. Then, just after closing, Ian fucked some guy, whose name he hadn’t bothered to ask, behind the club.

Anything to wash away that stupid, misplaced sense of betrayal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated posting this chapter, considering last night's episode. I decided to go ahead, but I do want to apologise if any of the language I used offended anyone. Wasn't my intention.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abruptly sobering, he wondered if he shouldn’t just leave. It should’ve been an alien thought; Milkoviches never turned tail, and ran. But hell, it hadn’t been the first time Mickey had bailed when shit got weird. Only difference was that he actually liked where he was now.

Unlike during the previous few weeks, Ian spent most of his time trying to avoid Mickey. Seriously, if he never saw that prick’s face again, it’d be too fucking soon. It was just that he was still too goddamn angry to let the whole thing go.

Mickey had wanted Ian to leave him alone, and Ian would respect that. But there wasn’t any reason why he couldn’t do whatever the fuck he wanted in the privacy of his own home.

It was for that reason that Ian found himself shoving his latest one-night-stand into the wall just inside his bedroom. He was going to make this man moan and scream, a perverse part of Ian vowed, his way of sending a huge, neon _Fuck you_ to Mickey.

And luckily for Ian, Calvin—and yeah, Ian was sure that was his name—seemed like he’d be a noisy fuck.

“You like that?” Ian asked, grinding his cock against the other man’s own straining erection.

“Fuck, yeah,” Calvin grunted. He tried to wind his arms around Ian’s shoulders to pull him down for a kiss, but Ian resisted.

Seizing Calvin’s wrists, Ian pinned the guy’s arms to the wall.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” he said. Keeping a firm grip on the other man, Ian nipped at a sensitive spot behind his ear. Smug satisfaction rushed through him at the sound of Calvin’s desperate little whimper.

“Ian, I want...” He swallowed hard, hips bucking. “I _need_ you to fuck me.”

The loud demand made Ian smile. Sensing that the talking was revving Calvin’s motor, Ian kept it up.

“Tell me how you want me to fuck you,” Ian ordered in a low voice. He had to admit, he enjoyed the way Calvin tried to hold back his moans so he could hear Ian’s words.

“Hard,” Calvin’s voice was rising to a half-shout. “I need you to give it to me hard!”

Unable to hold back his smirk, Ian backed the other man towards his bed, and then shoved Calvin unceremoniously onto the mattress. Grin widening at the way the headboard clunked loudly against the wall, Ian started working at the fly of his jeans.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Not for the first time that week, Mickey was woken up by the sound of not-so hushed voices and the distinctive thud a body made when it was shoved against dry walling not much thicker than cardboard.

Mickey figured he should’ve expected it. Ten days since he’d lashed out at Gallagher, and almost every day since, the other man had brought home some guy to fuck. It almost made Mickey smile at the extent the redhead was willing to go to to rub the whole thing in Mickey’s face.

Although, from the sounds of it, it wasn’t any hardship.

_Hardship_ , Mickey thought with a snort.

Abruptly sobering, he wondered if he shouldn’t just leave. It should’ve been an alien thought; Milkoviches never turned tail, and ran. But hell, it hadn’t been the first time Mickey had bailed when shit got weird. Only difference was that he actually liked where he was now.

A high-pitched, pleasured cry shook Mickey from his thoughts.

He was probably gonna have to invest in ear plugs at some point.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wednesday morning saw Mickey sitting with a pile of newspapers haphazardly stacked in front of him. It had just gone ten o’clock, and the studio was quiet; Mickey figured most of the yuppies hadn’t woken up yet.

A shadow fell over him a few minutes later. Looking up from an ad for a one-bedroom apartment for seven hundred dollars, Mickey met his boss’s exasperated grey eyes.

“Seriously? Is this what I’m paying you to do? Just sit around and check the classifieds?” Alfred asked in a longsuffering voice.

“Got nothin’ else to do,” Mickey pointed out.

“Are you kidding me? You could be preparing for the day’s clients, making sure the studio is ready for walk-ins. Hell, you could tidy up around here a little.”

Turning back to his newspaper, Mickey circled the advert with a pen before replying.

“Red does the prep work ‘fore we close up. Didn’t have a whole lotta walk-ins yesterday, so we’re covered. And,” Mickey skimmed the next page, “I swept the place when I got in.”

Alfred glanced around the studio, a consternated expression on his face.

“Sit up straight,” he muttered finally.

The chime of the bell above the studio’s door alerted them to the arrival of a customer. Smoothly sliding the newspapers off the counter, Mickey shoved them into a drawer while Alfred went to greet the person who’d walked in.

The woman’s silver grey hair was in a fashionable coiffeure, her makeup carefully applied. She smiled at Alfred as he approached her.

“Can I help you ma’am?” he asked politely.

“I certainly hope so,” the woman said. “The sign outside says you do wedding pictures?”

“Yes, ma’am. Weddings, christenings, dances, whatever you need.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. A friend of mine, Stella McCrory, recommended you. She said the service was excellent. Although I imagine photography for a wedding will be more involved that taking pictures of someone’s fat, spoilt cat.”

Mickey, who’d almost choked at the mention of Mrs McCrory, wanted to argue the point. He’d happily deal with the mother of all bridezillas and a goddamn Disney prince than ever be booked to do another goddamn animal portrait.

“Of course,” Alfred agreed, earning himself a glare from Mickey. Quickly moving to stand behind the counter, the other man pulled out a date book, and began thumbing through it. “When is the blessed event?” Alfred asked.

“Hmph... _Blessed event_ , my ass,” the woman scoffed. “My youngest son is going to marry some piece of South Side trash, and I’m just supposed to be okay with it. ‘Be supportive, Mom’, he tells me.”

Looking uncomfortable, Alfred tried to catch the woman’s attention. “That’s terrible, ma’am. But when is this—”

“And she wants a _small_ ceremony,” Momster-in-Law said, acting like Alfred hadn’t spoken. “Just family, she says. Never mind the fact that she has about fifteen damn siblings.”

“The date, ma’am?” Alfred sounded a little desperate by now.

“That’s all they know how to do, you know. Poor people? They excel at breeding.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up at that. He and Alfred exchanged a disbelieving look before turning back to the woman. Realising that she wasn’t going to let up until she’d finished with her ‘I-hate-poor-people’ speech, they just waited until she ran out of steam.

He kind of hoped they took this job. Bitch had to be loaded if she was friends with Mrs McCrory. If they got her home address, Mickey could give her a real reason to hate poor people when he brought his brothers back with him at some point to clean her place out.

It took a while, but she finally seemed to notice that she hadn’t exactly enraptured her audience. Seeming to shake herself, she spoke in a slightly calmer voice.

“The wedding is to be held on 21 July at one thirty.”

Checking the date book, Alfred gave the woman an insincere smile.

“Luckily for us, we are available on that day! Will it just be for the ceremony, or would you like us to do the pictures for the before and after, as well?”

“The pictures will all be taken at my home—since we can’t do it at the slum that girl lives in. The ceremony and reception will be held there as well,” she told him, wrinkling her nose a little.

“Quite right, no pictures of the slum.” Alfred filled in the information, pen digging into the page with how hard he was pressing. Still, that smile never faltered as he asked, “Whose name am I booking this under?”

“Candace Lishman.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ian came home that night, and headed straight for his bed. Not because he had some guy he couldn’t wait to fuck into the mattress, but because he was exhausted. It’d been his day off, but he felt like he’d pulled a double at the club, followed by an entire afternoon of class.

Who knew planning a wedding could be so goddamn complicated?

His sister’s wedding was in just over two months, and Fiona wanted everyone’s input. Ian didn’t get it, but he’d seen the slightly wild look in her eyes when dealing with her future mother-in-law, so he figured that there needed to be as many people present as possible to keep Fiona from committing murder.

It was just after nine, and Ian could hear movement in the apartment next door. Asshole neighbour would no doubt be relieved to have one night of uninterrupted sleep for a change.

Scowling at the wall, Ian felt a fresh surge of anger at the other man. Instead of just getting over this, he felt his resentment toward Mickey growing, and he had no idea why. It wasn’t as though that had been the first time some egotistical straight guy had warned him off. Hell, all things considered, Mickey could’ve done a lot worse than call him a fag.

And yet, all the logic in the world couldn’t change the fact that Ian was pissed off.

A sudden noise jolted Ian, and he realised that he’d fallen asleep. Glancing around, momentarily disoriented, he saw that it was just after midnight. Releasing a tired sigh, Ian was about to get up to change out of his clothes, when he heard that same sound that’d woke him up.

He heard a bed frame creaking a little, mattress springs protesting squeakily, and then... a moan.

_No_ , Ian thought, staring at the wall in disbelief. _That couldn’t be..._

Except, there it was, a little louder this time.

The wheels in Ian’s head started turning, and before he could second-guess himself, Ian began tugging on his jeans, working them down his hips as quietly as possible. Dick already hard after that last groan, Ian’s arousal kicked up a notch at what he was about to do.

Jerking himself off to the sound of the other man’s moans was supposed to be Ian’s own private little way of getting back at Mickey. Only, between his neighbour’s harsh gasps and hitching moans—and his own hand on his dick—Ian forgot all about being angry with Mickey. Feeling the pleasure building up at the base of his spine, Ian wished that he could have the other man under him so he could watch Mickey coming apart.

That image tore a loud groan from Ian before he could stop it.

There was a brief moment of silence on the other side of the wall; Ian mentally cursed himself for his lapse. Hand still on his dick, with the agonising quiet stretching on; Ian was just feeling the tendrils of embarrassment creeping over him when he heard it.

A soft whimper followed by creaking bedsprings. Mickey was touching himself again.

_Thank God_ , Ian thought.

It was easy to fall into a rhythm, with Ian answering every one of Mickey’s desperate moans with one of his own. For a few minutes, they jerked off to the sound of one another’s eager panting.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

The sharp cry from the other man blended into grunts and moans, and sent Ian over the edge. Biting back his own curse, Ian came, his hips bucking as his cum shot up his belly.

Harsh breathing came from the other side of the wall, but otherwise all was quiet. Ian spoke before he could think better of it.

“Night, Mick.”

He heard the creaking of the other man’s bed as Mickey shifted around. It took Ian a long time to realise that his neighbour had no intention of replying.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The redhead pulled back a little, and suddenly his mocking expression faded. Mickey had no idea what Gallagher saw when he looked at Mickey, and he didn’t fucking want to know. Using the other man’s apparent distraction to his advantage, Mickey shoved past him and barreled down the stairs.

_He was gonna have to leave_ , Mickey decided. This, whatever was going on between him and Gallagher, couldn’t happen. The little exercise in exhibitionism from last night was the most intimate Mickey had been with anyone since Adam had died, and it was freaking him the fuck out.

Shoving the thought of his friend aside, Mickey resolved that he’d try harder to find a new place to stay. Maybe somewhere outside of Chicago, what with Terry coming home soon. Mechanically pulling his clothes on, he thought about where he’d go. He’d heard that the weather was good in Ohio; or maybe, he’d take Mandy, and they’d go down to New Orleans. His sister had always wanted to do the whole Mardi Gras thing.

Plans already beginning to form in his head, Mickey left his apartment and headed for the stairwell. That level of distraction was stupid, especially since Mickey knew better. Which was why, when he nearly collided with someone on the stairs, he wanted to punch himself in the face.

“Watch where you’re fuckin’ goin’,” Mickey barked automatically. Taking a better look at who he’d bumped into, he fought back the urge to groan.

Gallagher was dressed in his running clothes. His hair was damp with sweat, and he was aiming an unfriendly smirk in Mickey’s direction.

“Don’t worry, Mick, I’m pretty sure you can’t catch gay just from touching someone.”

Not wanting to get into it with Gallagher right now, or ever, Mickey tried to duck past the redhead. Gallagher wasn’t having it; sidestepping, the other man blocked Mickey’s path.

“So, I was wondering,” Gallagher said casually, “does the wall make last night less gay somehow? Like, does the drywall keep all the homo of jerking off with another guy out?”

“Don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”

A humourless laugh greeted his words. Gallagher took a step closer, backing Mickey into the wall. He hated the feeling of being cornered, but he forced himself not to flinch. Skin crawling, Mickey met the other man’s furious green eyes.

“You got no idea? Really? So I was just imagining you jerking off last night? You getting louder when you realised I could hear you and that it was turning me on, that was all in my head?”

“Keep your fuckin’ voice down,” Mickey snapped.

“Why? You don’t want anyone to know that Mr Tough Guy gets off to the sounds of another dude jerking his dick?” Gallagher taunted.

The redhead pulled back a little, and suddenly his mocking expression faded. Mickey had no idea what Gallagher saw when he looked at Mickey, and he didn’t fucking want to know. Using the other man’s apparent distraction to his advantage, Mickey shoved past him and barrelled down the stairs.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ian wasn’t usually one to let guilt eat at him. Maybe it was as a result of having Frank Gallagher—narcissist, liar, alcoholic, and professional leech—as their primary example of morality, but none of the Gallagher kids had ever had a problem doing what needed to be done. And, once shit had gone down, they rarely let things bother them.

And yet, his actions towards Mickey had been niggling at him for days. On the train ride to work or college; after tests were handed back and Ian saw that he’d passed with flying colours; while he was changing in the Fairy Tale’s locker room.

He felt like an asshole.

Because the more he thought about it, the more Mickey’s actions spoke of someone who was deeply closeted. And, based on the terror on the other man’s face at the mention of someone else finding out, Ian could guess that it was more than a matter of simple denial.

Needing an outsider’s perspective, Ian explained what had happened between him and his neighbour to Andrew one night on the ride home. His friend’s reactions were easy to read: a salacious grin; a sympathetic wince; an indignant scowl.

“Ian Clayton Gallagher,” Andrew said in a low voice, “you did not threaten to out that poor guy.”

“Oh, come on, you know I’d never do that,” Ian protested. “It’s just... he made me so mad—”

A sharp slap delivered to the back of his head cut him off.

“Not everyone’s family is as laissez-faire about the whole gay thing as yours were,” Andrew told him seriously.

Unable to hold back a heavy sigh, Ian gave his friend a testy look.

“Things weren’t exactly sunshine and roses for me in the beginning, either,” he muttered.

Andrew stared at him for a moment before he started laughing. While Ian normally enjoyed the deep, rich sound, he now found his friend’s mirth really fucking annoying.

Finally pulling himself together, Andrew looked at him with a mixture of pity and disgust.

“Ian, when you came out your brother tried to school you on how the human digestive system works. My brothers took me into the backyard and beat the shit outta me. Told me to never talk about it again. Trust me, you got off easy.”

The train finally stopped at their station. Ian felt a heavy weight settle on him, his earlier guilt magnified. Just before he and Andrew parted ways, his friend halted him with a hand on his arm. Leaning close, Andrew spoke in a low voice.

“What looks like pussying out to you is about survival for a lot of us. Remember that.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lost in thought, Ian made his way to his apartment, not paying too much attention to his surroundings. Andrew was right, he knew. While Lip had seemed a little disgusted initially, the rest of his siblings had pretty much taken things in stride.

But while he’d enjoyed his family’s support, Ian knew that others weren’t always as lucky.

_Was that what’d happened to Mickey?_ he wondered.

He was halfway up the second flight of stairs before he realised that he wasn’t alone in the stairwell. Being sure to keep his steps even, Ian wracked his brain trying to remember who else came home this early in the morning; no one he could think of.

Picking up his pace slightly, Ian wondered if he should knock on someone’s door for help, or if he should try to get to his apartment for the baseball bat that he kept behind his front door. Then again, if this was a mugging, he didn’t want to give these guys a chance to steal the contents of his apartment, too.

Ian decided to chance it. Abandoning caution, he began to take the stairs two at a time. The other sets of footsteps began thundering after him.

Panic making his fingers clumsy, Ian stopped in front of his apartment door, only to drop the keys.

“Fuck.”

He’d just ducked down to snatch them up when a hard pair of hands grabbed him by the shoulders. Shoved against the wall, Ian felt a lance of pain shoot through his skull a moment later.

Three men were in front of him, all of them looking him up and down contemptuously.

“This him?” the one holding onto Ian asked. He had a patchy beard and watery blue eyes.

The question was directed at a guy who was the stereotypical image of the all American boy; Ian thought he recognised him from somewhere. Nodding his head, the man answered eagerly.

“That’s him, alright. Saw him a couple times on the L, each time with a different guy. Saw how they were lookin’ at an’ touchin’ each other. All unnatural-like.”

It wasn’t too hard for him to figure out what these men had planned. And Ian wasn’t so scared that he couldn’t appreciate the irony that tonight, of all nights, he was going to learn the ugly truth about fag bashing.

This was going to hurt.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_“What you waitin’ for, boy?”_

_His fists slammed into an unprotected face; pained moans, pleas to stop. When that bloodied face was pressed against the alley floor. Mickey’s boots met the figure’s vulnerable ribs._

_“Please, Mickey, stop!”_

Jolting awake, Mickey tried desperately to catch his breath. He fumbled for the bedside lamp; it took him a few tries, but he finally managed to get the damn thing on. Hands trembling slightly, Mickey stared down at them, half-expecting his knuckles to be bruised and scraped from the remembered beating.

It had been a couple weeks since Mickey had had this nightmare. He wasn’t stupid; he knew what had triggered this.

A shaky breath in followed by an unsteady breath out. Mickey hoped that as his panic faded so, too, would the dull sounds of fists striking flesh. Only, it didn’t.

Brow furrowed, he froze, listening intently. _No, that sound wasn’t in his head_ , Mickey thought. He could hear men’s voices, too, but couldn’t make out what they were saying over the thuds and grunts of pain.

Curious, he got out of bed, and padded into the living room. It was easier to hear what was going on, and when did, his mind went blank.

“You havin’ fun yet, faggot?”

A bright flare of fury quickly cut off by icy calm. Walking slowly back into his bedroom, Mickey grabbed the Beretta he kept just under the edge of his mattress. Automatically, he checked that the gun was fully loaded, and he stalked out of his room.

Opening the apartment door, Mickey quickly took in the scene. Gallagher had two men on either side of him, each holding onto one of his arms. A third was slamming his fist into Gallagher’s exposed belly and face.

Not saying a word, Mickey levelled the gun on the guy doing the punching; more than anything, he wanted to splatter the man’s brains all over the dimly lit hallway. Instead, he flipped the off the safety, and cleared his throat loudly.

The sound startled the other men. They whipped around automatically, and Mickey enjoyed the way their eyes widened at the sight of the Beretta. Backing away quickly, they released their hold on the Gallagher, and the redhead sank weakly to the floor.

“The fuck d’you think you’re doin’?” the one guy yelped. With his broad shoulders, blond hair, and bright blue eyes, he looked like Captain fucking America. Only the flecks of Gallagher’s blood on his face marred the wholesome image.

“You’re makin’ a fuckin’ noise,” Mickey replied, somehow managing to keep his voice even.

His words seemed to relax one of the other men. This one had a weak ass excuse for a beard. Lowering his hands, he spoke to Mickey in a nasal voice.

“Sorry, man. We’re just helpin’ this faggot see the error of his ways; gotta beat the queer outta him.” This last bit was said with a smile, as if inviting Mickey to share in the joke. “You can have a go at him if you want,” the man continued when Mickey didn’t reply.

“I don’t much give a shit ‘bout some guy who likes to take it up the ass. But what really pisses me off is people wakin’ me up before four o’clock in the fuckin’ mornin’.” Feeling his control beginning to splinter, Mickey spoke through clenched teeth. “Now, get the fuck outta her before one of you asswipes ends up in the goddamn emergency room.”

A moment of tense silence. Then...

“You’re bluffing,” Captain America said with a smirk.

Mickey wanted to thank the guy. Smoothly lowering his arm, he took aim at the all-American boy’s foot, and pulled the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot echoed in the narrow hallway, drowning out the Captain’s shrieks. His buddies turned to him immediately, alternating between shouting at him that he was going to be okay, and screaming at Mickey that he was crazy.

Levelling his gun at the two other men, Mickey was about to bark at them to fuck off when he the sound of a shotgun being cocked cut him off. Glancing slowly over his shoulder, Mickey saw that Linda Karib, his landlady, was pointing the weapon right at him.

Well, this night just kept getting better, didn’t it?

“What the hell is going on here?” Linda demanded. “Do you have any idea how many noise complaints I’ve gotten in the last twenty minutes?”

Of course, that was what she’d be pissed about.

Wary, Mickey lowered his gun, being sure not to give the assholes who’d been beating Gallagher his back.

“These assclowns woke me. Heard some noise, came to see what the fuck was goin’ on, and found ‘em beatin’ on Gallagher.” Mickey nodded in the redhead’s direction, feeling a tug of concern for him. During the commotion, Gallagher had huddled up against the wall, trying to make himself as small as possible.”

That defensive posture reminded Mickey of Adam.

“C’mon, lady, he’s a fag!” the third man, who’d been silent so far, protested. “You’re an Islam! Your people don’t like ‘em any more than we do!”

“I’m a Muslim, you idiot. And some of _my people_ don’t like the infidel, either. Does that mean I get to shoot you too?”

Mickey bit back a grin at the way they all paled. Even heavily pregnant, Linda looked more than capable of following through on the threat.

Eyes narrowed, Linda spoke slowly.

“I’m going to give you until the count of five. If you are not out of this hallway and heading down the stairs in that time, I will be telling the police that I fired in self-defence. And Mickey and Ian here will corroborate my story.”

Their faces paled even further.

“One.”

The three men didn’t hesitate. Grabbing their injured friend, the other two all but carried him away, skirting past Mickey and Linda before rushing for the stairs.

Linda didn’t make it to five.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A light touch along his side had Ian jerking in surprise. He opened his eyes, looking down to take in his bruised torso, and the surprisingly gentle tattooed hands touching him. Ian wondered if maybe he hadn’t taken too many blows to the head.

Waiting until she was sure the men had left, Linda lowered the shotgun. The slight woman didn’t appear shaken by the encounter; instead, she turned to Mickey with an impatient expression.

“Why are you just standing there? Help him! He’s bleeding on the carpet.”

Mickey was tempted to roll his eyes at her, but decided not to push his luck; she still had the shotgun in her hands.

It was hard not to flinch at the sight of Gallagher’s bloodied face. Scooping up the dropped keys, Mickey passed them over to Linda so she could unlock the redhead’s apartment. Crouched in front of Gallagher’s prone form brought back memories of another battered figure.

“You still with us, Gallagher?” Mickey asked brusquely.

“Barely,” he answered with a wince.

“This is gonna hurt some,” Mickey warned after a moment.

Hands trembling almost imperceptibly, he reached for Gallagher, wrapping his arm around the other man’s waist, dragging Gallagher’s arm over his shoulders. Not giving the redhead a chance to resist, Mickey began lifting him up off the floor.

A sharp inhalation and a muttered curse were Gallagher’s only responses to the pain; Mickey was impressed. Stepping past Linda, he and Gallagher staggered into the apartment.

Making a beeline for the couch in the corner of the living room, Mickey was able to take a fleeting look around. Everything looked similar to Mickey’s apartment, only this place didn’t have piles of junk littering the corners. It almost looked like a home.

Another pained sound escaped Gallagher as Mickey lowered him onto the couch. Linda was standing just behind him; she’d leaned the gun against the wall, and if Mickey didn’t know any better, he’d say that the woman was hovering.

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” she asked the redhead. Not waiting for a reply, she turned to Mickey. “Do you have a car to take him in?”

“Uh, no.”

“Don’t need a hospital,” Gallagher chimed in weakly.

Linda ignored him.

“I could call an ambulance... although God knows sirens make people around here twitchy,” she mused.

“I’m fine,” Gallagher said, a little more loudly this time.

“Or we could call his family.” She paused, clearly thinking it over. Then she gave a definitive nod. “That’s what we’ll do. Where is his phone?” she asked Mickey.

“Uh, hello? I’m sitting right here!” Gallagher shouted.

The other man’s irritable yell drew Mickey and Linda’s attention back to him. Wincing in discomfort, Gallagher attempted to sit up on the couch.

“Look, I’ll be okay. I just need to put some ice on my ribs, and I’ll be fine,” he told them.

“Yeah, no offense, man, but you look like shit. Don’t think you’d be able to make it from here to the fuckin’ kitchen. How the fuck you plan on takin’ care of yourself?” Mickey asked bluntly.

“That’s an excellent point,” Linda agreed. “Where’s your first aid kit?” she barrelled on before Gallagher could argue.

“Bottom drawer in the kitchen,” the redhead muttered sullenly, slumping back onto the couch.

“Good. Mickey will help you get cleaned up.”

And with that, Linda left the apartment, taking the shotgun with her.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ian’s throbbing jaw dropped open at his landlady’s arbitrary pronouncement. Staring after her retreating figure, Ian couldn’t help but wonder if the universe was having a laugh at his expense.

The sound of Mickey rummaging around in his kitchen snapped Ian out of his thoughts. He glared at the other man.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded as Mickey came back into the living room, first aid kit and a bag of frozen peas in hand.

“Gonna patch you up,” Mickey answered shortly.

“Why? ‘Cause Linda told you to?”

“Look Gallagher, I dunno if you noticed, since you got hit in the head a couple times, but she had a huge-ass fuckin’ gun with her. An’ those pregnancy hormones make women edgy; don’t need to give her a reason to shoot me.”

Fighting back a reluctant smile, Ian tried to find a way to get the other man out of his apartment so he could stew in peace.

“Please, just get out,” he said, in too much pain to be polite.

“Sure,” Mickey said easily. “Just as soon as you call your family and get someone to come over to take care of you.”

“Why the fuck does it matter to you?” Ian snapped. His patience was non-existent at this point; he just wanted to sleep.

“Doesn’t, but it’s between this, an’ havin’ to deal with Linda bitchin’ at me. Now shut the fuck up.”

Mickey dropped the first aid kit and the bag of peas beside Ian on the couch, and then dragged the coffee table closer to where Ian was sitting. He seemed to be bracing himself for something.

“Lift your shirt,” Mickey ordered.

“What?” Ian stared at him incredulously.

“Need to ice your ribs.”

“I’ll do it through the shirt.” Ian reached for the peas, but winced as the motion sent a sharp pain through his side.

The other man watched him for a moment. Instead of making some snide comment like Ian expected to him, Mickey merely repeated his terse instruction for Ian to lift the material.

Movements slow, Ian did as he was told. He screwed his eyes shut, not wanting to see the damage, but Mickey’s vicious curse told him all he needed to know.

“That bad, huh?” he forced himself to ask, trying to keep his tone casual.

“Jesus Christ, Gallagher, you’ll be lucky if nothin’s fuckin’ broken.”

A light touch along his side had Ian jerking in surprise. He opened his eyes, looking down to take in his bruised torso, and the surprisingly gentle tattooed hands touching him. Ian wondered if maybe he hadn’t taken too many blows to the head.

“Just checkin’ to make sure nothin’s stickin’ out or caved in,” Mickey said defensively.

“Where’d you learn how to do this?” Ian asked as the other man moved on to examine his face.

“Learn what?” Mickey stood up, and headed back into the kitchen; Ian could hear him shifting stuff around in the freezer. The other man returned with a package of frozen, precooked spaghetti.

“The whole first aid thing,” Ian clarified as Mickey sat back down on the coffee table.

A brief pause before Mickey answered in a subdued tone.

“Had to do if for my brothers a couple times.”

“You guys get into a lot of fights over the years?”

“Somethin’ like that.” The other man’s expression darkened for a moment before he shook it off. “Here, hold onto this.”

Obediently, Ian held the peas to his aching side, and watched as his unlikely rescuer sifted through the first aid kit. Mickey pulled out a pack of antiseptic wipes, and opened them up.

“I can do that, y’know,” Ian said, a little nervous. It wasn’t that he thought Mickey would hurt him; it was just... a little intimate to have him so close.

Mickey stiffened slightly. Some indiscernible emotion crossed his face, too quickly for Ian to figure out what it was. Putting down the wipes, the other man stood up without a word.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Struggling to keep the prickle of hurt he felt off his face, Mickey made to leave Gallagher’s apartment. He shouldn’t be surprised that the redhead didn’t want Mickey touching him; Gallagher had just seen him shoot a guy, after all. Didn’t exactly instil confidence in his care-taking abilities.

He paused at the door. Knowing that he should just leave, mind his own fucking business, Mickey turned around to face the redhead. Gallagher looked faintly ridiculous. He’d pressed the spaghetti to the side of his face, was holding the bag of peas against his ribs. Only the memory of the swelling and bruising hidden behind the peas kept Mickey from smiling.

“You need to be more careful,” he blurted out.

The other man watched him cautiously.

“Bringing guys back to your place to fuck... it’s risky,” Mickey continued. “You should, I dunno, find somewhere else to do it.” He felt stupid, but fuck, what had happened tonight had struck a nerve with him.

“That what you do?” Gallagher asked quietly.

There was a tense silence, and Mickey fought back against the instinctive urge to deny it. That caged in feeling began to descend on him; he needed to get the fuck outta there, maybe grab his camera, and take a walk.

“Just... watch yourself,” Mickey muttered at last.

He left Gallagher’s apartment, and was out on the street a few minutes later, clutching his camera tightly against him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part of Ian wanted to approach Mickey; he opted for watching the dark haired man instead. Ian had no idea where this voyeuristic streak had suddenly reared its head from, but he had to admit it was interesting. He saw how Mickey nonchalantly checked out the other patrons, eyes skipping past where Ian was sitting in the shadows.

Lying in bed the night after his beating, Ian found that he couldn’t sleep. His side was throbbing, and every time he closed his eyes, he was assaulted by this helpless feeling. Last night, with those guys surrounding him, all his ROTC training and the years of growing up on the South Side had abandoned him; all he’d known as those hard hands had grabbed him was fear.

He was just debating whether he should get up to go get something for the pain when he heard a sound from next door. Freezing instinctively, Ian wondered if they were going to have a repeat of last week.

Except, as Ian listened for another few seconds, he realised that this wasn’t the same thing at all.

“No... Stop, _please_!”

Ian stared at the wall separating him from the neighbouring apartment in disbelief. Hearing Mickey ‘ **FUCK U-UP** ’ Milkovich begging wasn’t something he’d ever thought he’d hear. Before Ian could work out if the pain was making him a little crazy, or if Mickey was actually in trouble, the other man’s pleading turned into anguished yelling.

“ _Leave him the fuck alone!_ ”

That had Ian pounding on the wall before he could think twice. Flinching as the movement jarred his bruised ribs, Ian slammed the flat of his hand against the wall repeatedly.

“Mick? You okay in there?” he called.

There was an abrupt silence. Ian began shoving the covers off himself; he knew that there probably wasn’t much he could do for Mickey if the other man was being attacked, but he couldn’t just lie there while it happened.

“Hey, come on, man. What’s going on?” he tried again.

“Nothin’,” Mickey said at last, his voice slightly hoarse.

“Didn’t sound like nothing,” Ian pointed out, unnerved. He knew he should probably just take the other man at his word, but the desperation and... panic in Mickey’s voice just now got to him.

More silence and Ian didn’t think Mickey was going to answer. He’d just about given up on hearing anything from his neighbour when Mickey spoke.

“Nightmare. Happens sometimes.”

Ian didn’t know what to say to that. Hell, he was surprised that Mickey had even owned up to that kind of vulnerability; he’d expected some bullshit story from the other man, if Mickey had even bothered to reply. Deciding that he should probably take advantage of the fact that Mickey was awake, and sort of open to conversation, Ian changed the subject.

“So, uh, I guess I owe you a thank you,” he said hesitantly.

“The fuck for?”

“You helped me, kept those guys from putting me in the hospital,” Ian explained, exasperated that Mickey was trying to blow the whole thing off.

“If you had half a fuckin’ brain, you’d have gone to the fuckin’ hospital,” Mickey grumbled. Then, in a harsher voice, he added, “An’ I didn’t do it to help you. You gettin’ beaten to death would’ve meant me havin’ to talk to the goddamn cops to see if I’d heard anythin’.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Ian huffed, losing patience. “I’m trying to say thank you. What’s wrong with you that you can’t just say ‘you’re welcome’?”

Not expecting anything more from the asshole next door, Ian resolved to go to sleep, and let Mickey stew in his nightmares the next time. He was struggling to drag the blankets back up when he heard the quiet words.

“You’re welcome.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been about three weeks since Ian’s beatdown, and his bruises were beginning to fade. He was glad for it; having to explain to people what had happened to his face had turned out to be a pain in the ass.

The worst thing had been Fiona finding out.

In hindsight, Ian knew it was his own fault that she’d taken it as badly as she had. He’d dodged her calls, and skipped out on a couple of her wedding planning sessions, hoping that he wouldn’t look like he’d been hit by a car the next time he saw her.

Big mistake.

Woken up by the sound of loud knocking early on Saturday morning, Ian wondered what the hell he’d done to piss his neighbour off this time. It wasn’t like he’d been up screwing some guy in the wee hours—the bruises tended to put people off—so he couldn’t figure out what Mickey’s goddamn problem was. Resisting the urge to yell an angry, “Fuck off,” at the door, Ian got out of bed slowly.

Shuffling across his apartment, Ian pulled the door open to find a dark haired figure scowling at him.

Only it wasn’t the one he’d been expecting.

Fiona took one look at him, and her murderous expression quickly morphed into one of concern. Standing just behind her was Liam, his wide brown eyes fixed on Ian’s face.

“Jesus Christ, Ian! What the hell happened to you?”

His sister barged in without waiting for a response. Heaving a sigh, Ian waited until Liam was inside before shutting the door behind them.

“This is why you’ve been avoidin’ me, isn’t it? Who the fuck did this to you?” Fiona demanded.

“Pretty much,” Ian replied, not meeting her gaze. “And no one you need to worry about.”

“Did you call the cops? Press charges against ‘em, or something?”

“Get the cops involved? In this neighbourhood? No, thanks,” Ian scoffed. “Besides, you should see what the other guy looks like,” he added, thinking of the man Mickey had shot.

Easing himself down onto the couch, Ian turned to his younger brother.

“How’s school going, kiddo?”

“Good. I got a B+ on the English assignment you helped me with.”

“That’s great! Did you—”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?” Fiona interrupted.

Ian frowned at Liam. “You didn’t tell Fi about your grade? Why not?” he asked, deliberately misunderstanding her question.

“Don’t play dumb with me, asshole! You look like you went a couple rounds with Mike fuckin’ Tyson. Now, tell me—”

A loud banging sounded from Ian’s room, cutting Fiona off.

“Shut the fuck up!” Mickey yelled, his voice slightly muffled. “Some people are tryin’ to fuckin’ sleep!”

Laughing at the shocked expression on his sister’s face, even though it made his ribs ache, Ian called back.

“Sorry!”

“Do you have someone in your bed right now?” Fiona asked in a whisper.

_Ha, he wished._

“Guy next door,” he replied instead.

“Jesus, are the walls really that thin?”

Mind automatically flashing back to the fun and games caused be those paper-thin walls, Ian answered his sister with a smirk.

“Oh, yeah.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey waited about a month after the fag bashing before he went out looking for some action. It had been even longer since Mickey had gotten laid, and by now his skin was practically crawling with need. Still, horny or not, Mickey was being cautious. He’d avoided any situation that would bring him too close to another dude, and kept his jerking off to the confines of the shower.

It was starting to make him crazy.

Deciding that he’d played it safe for fucking long enough, Mickey went to some dive bar close to home. The Alibi wasn’t one of his usual haunts, catering to aging deadbeats who only had minor skirmishes with the law.

As he ordered a beer from the bartender, some guy with a beard and long, dark hair, Mickey glanced around the bar casually. The place was dark, but even so, no one looked especially appealing. Worse, no one looked even vaguely interested.

_Shit_.

Maybe if he waited it out a little longer, drank a little more, someone would begin to stand out. The idea of getting wasted while looking for a hookup wasn’t appealing, but Mickey wasn’t leaving there until he’d found someone to fuck him.

Three beers and a tequila later, and Mickey knew he’d found what he’d been looking for.

This guy was the epitome of average. Hair that was a shade between brown and blond; not too tall; pleasant but ultimately forgettable features; nothing about him that stood out... except for the way he was looking at Mickey.

Their eyes met again after a few minutes. The guy cocked his head toward the bathrooms, and Mickey gave an almost imperceptible nod. Finishing off the dregs of his beer, Mickey ambled across the bar before slipping out of the emergency exit.

Shoulders relaxing slightly at the prospect of finally getting some relief, Mickey leaned against the alley wall opposite the emergency door. He fished out his pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of his jeans, waiting for Average Joe to show up.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sitting in a darkened corner of the Alibi, Ian’s eyes were fixed on the bar ahead of him. He’d come in there in the hopes of anonymously blowing off steam, of being able to drink without anyone trying to get chatty or, worse, trying to get into his pants.

Just over an hour ago, he’d seen Mickey coming in, and he’d been torn. Ian really did just want to be alone, but he’d been unable to contain the faint prickles of irritation he’d felt when the other man had walked past without noticing him.

Part of Ian wanted to approach Mickey; he opted for watching the dark haired man instead. Ian had no idea where this voyeuristic streak had suddenly reared its head from, but he had to admit it was interesting. He saw how Mickey nonchalantly checked out the other patrons, eyes skipping past where Ian was sitting in the shadows.

Ian was just about to signal to Kev, the bartender, that he wanted a refill when he noticed something pass between Mickey and one of the other guys sitting at the bar. His attention centred on the two men, Ian saw them wordlessly communicating with each other for a moment before Mickey stood up.

Casually, Mickey headed out the emergency door, while the other guy took a surreptitious look around the bar.

He didn’t know what made him do it. Leaning forward in his seat, Ian made sure to catch the other man’s eye. He sent a knowing smirk in the guy’s direction, feeling a twinge of smug satisfaction as he watched the man blanch.

Turning around hurriedly in his seat, Mickey’s hookup paid for his drinks, and just about ran out of the bar.

Not bothering to hold back his grin, Ian left his unfinished beer on the dirty table, sliding out of his chair. Quickly, he schooled his features into a bored expression, walking casually over to the back door before stepping out.

The burning embers of a cigarette, and a figure dimly outlined in the dark. Whoever it was didn’t wait to get a good look at him. Instead, there was the sound of a foot scuffing against the pavement, snuffing out the faint glow of the cigarette, and Mickey’s irritable voice.

“Took you fuckin’ long enough.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” Ian replied easily.

Mickey’s head snapped up so fast, Ian was surprised the other guy didn’t get whiplash. They stared at one another for a moment before anger replaced the disbelief on the other man’s face.

“The fuck you think you’re doin’, Gallagher?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grinding his teeth as Gallagher stepped closer to him; Mickey forced himself to hold his ground. Unlike the last time the other man had cornered him, Mickey felt the faint stirrings of excitement. He didn’t know if it was the intent way Gallagher was looking at him, or if he was just so horny that his brain had stopped functioning; either way, Mickey felt himself getting hard.

Mickey felt a flare of panic, which he quickly masked with fury. At least he didn’t have to fake it; if Gallagher had ruined his chances of getting laid, Mickey was going to beat him bloody.

_Okay, not really. But he was gonna be fuckin’ pissed._

“This your usual M.O.?” the redhead asked, appearing unaffected by Mickey’s aggravation. “You bend over for some random guy in some dark, nasty alley?”

Grinding his teeth as Gallagher stepped closer to him; Mickey forced himself to hold his ground. Unlike the last time the other man had cornered him, Mickey felt the faint stirrings of excitement. He didn’t know if it was the intent way Gallagher was looking at him, or if he was just so horny that his brain had stopped functioning; either way, Mickey felt himself getting hard.

“Doesn’t look like your friend’s going to make it,” Gallagher sighed regretfully, taking another step closer, until he and Mickey were only a few inches apart.

“Then there’s no reason for me to be standin’ here, right?”

Despite his words, Mickey didn’t move; his breathing quickened when Gallagher closed more of the distance between them. They were so close that Mickey was sure he could count Gallagher’s freckles if he wanted.

“What, you’re going back inside? You want to see if there are any other takers? ‘Cause you’re really spoiled for choice in there.”

“Go fuck yourself, Gallagher.” Mickey made to step around the other man, when a pair of muscled arms shot out, hemming him in. The excitement still thrumming through Mickey kicked up a notch.

“I’d rather fuck you,” Gallagher told him with a cocky smirk.

By this point, the two of them were brushing against each other with each quickening breath. Gallagher’s gaze dropped to Mickey’s mouth, and the redhead leaned in closer to him.

“Kiss me, an’ I’ll cut your fuckin’ tongue out,” Mickey snapped, turning his face away.

A soft huff of laughter against his ear before hard hands gripped him by his upper arms, and spun him around. The rough handling made Mickey give a little moan of anticipation.

“You got a condom, Mick?” the other man asked, his hands moving down to take hold of Mickey’s hips.

Bracing himself on his elbows against the wall, it took Mickey a second to unscramble his brains enough to answer.

“B-back pocket,” he muttered.

“Boy scout, huh?” Gallagher said mischievously.

Mickey felt a hand roving over his ass, dipping into his pocket, giving his cheek a playful squeeze before withdrawing. The teasing touch was making Mickey impatient; pushing back off the wall, his hands dropped to the fly of his jeans.

Fingers fumbling with the zipper, Mickey nearly whimpered when he heard Gallagher doing the same thing from behind him. A tiny voice in the back of his mind kept whispering that this was a bad idea, but Mickey couldn’t fucking remember why. The only thing registering through the haze of lust and alcohol was that he wanted Gallagher inside him. Right fucking now.

He pushed his jeans and underwear down, once again leaning his weight against the wall as he waited for Gallagher to fuck him. That was why he started at the feel of long fingers probing his hole.

A little hiss of pleasure as those fingers circled his entrance teasingly. It’d been a long time since anyone had bothered prepping him—it was something he usually took care of himself—and the memories that accompanied the feeling jarred Mickey a little.

“You wanna hurry the fuck up?” He forced the words out, trying to think past the intoxicating pleasure that came with the feel of Gallagher breaching him.

“What’s the rush?”

Looking over his shoulder at the redhead, Mickey gave Gallagher an impatient scowl.

“Rather not have my dick hangin’ out the next time some comes out here.”

“Fair enough.”

Gallagher slowly withdrew his fingers, only to replace them with his cock a few moments later. And still, the other man hesitated.

“How d’you want this?”

“Hard,” Mickey replied, wriggling his hips a little. “Don’t hold back.”

Not bothering to respond, Gallagher steadily pushed his way inside Mickey; not so fast that it hurt, but slowly enough to make Mickey writhe.

“ _Fuck_... Gallagher,” Mickey gasped, his ass clenching around the hard dick inside him.

And that was the last time he was able to draw in enough breath to speak. The redhead had set a ruthless pace, his hands gripping Mickey’s hips hard enough to leave bruises as their bodies came together. Pleasure from where Gallagher was hitting his prostate mingled with the bite of pain from the way Mickey’s elbows were scraping against the bricks of the alley wall.

He could feel his orgasm building up inside him. Reaching down, Mickey managed to jerk his dick a few times before the other man batted his hand away. Any protest Mickey might have made died in his throat as Gallagher’s touch replaced his.

The rough thrusts from behind him combined with the firm touch on his cock were too much. Only years of discipline from living with Terry kept him from crying out when he came. Shudders wracked his body, and Mickey could hear Gallagher grunting with pleasure.

Feeling the other man biting down on that spot between his neck and shoulder fractured Mickey’s control; he moaned before he could stop himself. His mind blanked, eyes rolling back in his head as he felt Gallagher’s hips jerking erratically against him.

 _Goddamn_ , Mickey thought, trying to catch his breath.

It took a minute or two for reality to descend. Gallagher had pulled out of him, but his front was still pressed to Mickey’s back. Feeling the other man gasping for breath against him, the high from the sex quickly dropped down into a vague panic.

_This had been a bad fuckin’ idea._

_\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Ian could feel a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. Fuck, he wished they were somewhere more private so they could go again. Unable to stop himself, he licked the mark he’d left on Mickey’s skin, enjoying the way the other man shivered in response.

He wasn’t allowed to enjoy the sensations, though.

“Move,” Mickey ordered, elbowing Ian none-too-gently in the ribs.

Right, they were in public, so they needed to be careful.

Reluctantly, Ian took a step back. He quickly tossed the condom onto one of the many piles of trash lining the alley, and then did up his fly. Mickey kept his back to Ian the whole time.

Watching the other man intently, Ian could feel that something was off; Mickey seemed to have shut down. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and offered one to Mickey once he’d turned back around.

Mickey shook his head wordlessly. Then, without so much as a ‘Fuck you’, the other man stepped around him, heading towards the mouth of the alley.

Ian couldn’t help it; his jaw dropped a little.

Was Mickey seriously just... walking away?

“You’re leaving?” Ian asked, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice.

“Got what I came here for,” Mickey called back.

And just like that, Ian was standing alone in the filthy alley. As he stared after Mickey, Ian thought of all the guys he’d prayed would leave once they were done, the one-night-stands he’d virtually thrown out of his apartment when morning came.

Turned out, Karma was a mean old bitch.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hands shaking slightly, Mickey shoved open his apartment door, barely noticing as the thing bounced off the wall.

_Shit, shit, shit._

Mickey couldn’t remember the walk back; he kept alternating between this deep sense of satisfaction he got whenever he’d gotten thoroughly fucked, and a jittery panic when he remembered who he’d let do the fucking.

 _God, he was so fuckin’ stupid_ , Mickey thought. There was a reason he kept things anonymous. For the last eight goddamn years, Mickey had fucked nameless strangers he knew he’d never see again. Because that was the motherfucking rule: he only ever screwed guys he didn’t know and, more importantly, who didn’t know him. No possibility of getting attached, only staying together long enough to scratch the itch, and then they both went their separate ways.

Only Mickey had abandoned that rule the fucking second Gallagher had given him that filthy smile in the alley.

 _It wasn’t gonna happen again, though,_ Mickey resolved. A once off that they were both going to pretend had never happened.

Again, Mickey wondered if he shouldn’t just find another place to live. Or maybe he should cut the shit, and go back home. At least he wouldn’t have to pay rent; and besides; odds were that he’d end up back there anyway, once Terry got released.

Not yet, he decided. Maybe he’d get lucky, and Gallagher would follow his lead in acting like they barely knew each other.

Yeah, and maybe Mickey would win the lottery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I know this chapter is really REALLY short. Hopefully, the smut makes up for it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, that’s cute, you acting like the guy next door is just someone you wanna fuck.” Straightening up to his full height, Andrew gave Ian an irritable look. “If you wanted sex, you could go bend our waiter over during his lunch break. Or you could keep screwing the cute twinks from the club. But instead, you’re bitching about some closet case who, predictably, doesn’t want anything to do with you after you fucked his brains out.”

Less than a month before Fiona’s wedding, and Ian was edgy. He had no idea why—maybe Fi’s irritability was rubbing off—but whatever it was, it didn’t make him the best company.

“Snap at me one more time, Gallagher, and you’re gonna be wearing your lunch. And you can go to that goddamn wedding by your fucking self,” Andrew growled, reaching the end of his tether. Ian couldn’t blame the other man; they were having lunch, and he’d been sniping at Andrew all afternoon.

Shame and resentment churned inside him for a moment. He’d asked Andrew to be his date to Fiona’s wedding mostly out of self-preservation. As guilty as he felt exposing a stranger to the insanity that seemed to follow the Gallaghers wherever they went, he needed someone to ward Jimmy’s dad off; Ian didn’t like the way the older man looked at him.

Weighing his pride against the possibility of being cornered by Ned, Ian muttered a grudging, “Sorry.”

“Yeah, you sound it,” Andrew scoffed.

They sat there for a few minutes, the silence growing increasingly uncomfortable.

Finally, Ian gave in.

“I really am sorry,” he said, meaning it this time.

That thawed Andrew out a little. Looking up from where he’d been fidgeting with his cutlery, Andrew couldn’t hide the confusion that had settled across his features.

“You planning on telling me what’s up with you? You’ve been pissy all week. That beating still freaking you out?”

“Nah, man, it’s not that,” Ian replied with a stiff shrug. “It’s just...” He trailed off, not sure what to say. Ian hadn’t told his friend about his hook up with Mickey, already anticipating the lecture he was sure to get from Andrew.

Still, maybe an uninterested third party could make sense of this whole goddamn mess. Deciding that he didn’t really have anything to lose, Ian just blurted it all out.

“So, I fucked neighbour guy, and now he’s avoi—”

The rest of Ian’s sentence was cut off as Andrew’s head thunked down onto the table. The other man banged his head a little, earning him disapproving looks from some of the other diners.

“What are you doing?” Ian demanded.

“This hurts less than hearing you tell me about some straight dude you boned,” Andrew replied without lifting his head.

“Pretty sure he isn’t straight.”

Andrew finally looked up, and Ian kind of wished he hadn’t; that look could’ve felled a rhino.

“Straight, in the closet, whatever; it doesn’t make any fucking difference. You’re not gonna get what you want either way.”

“Being a little dramatic, don’t you think? I’m just looking to get laid,” Ian argued.

“Oh, that’s cute, you acting like the guy next door is just someone you wanna fuck.” Straightening up to his full height, Andrew gave Ian an irritable look. “If you wanted sex, you could go bend our waiter over during his lunch break. Or you could keep screwing the cute twinks from the club. But instead, you’re bitching about some closet case who, predictably, doesn’t want anything to do with you after you fucked his brains out.”

“I like a challenge,” Ian protested.

“Oh, you’re challenged, all right.”

Ian grinned at that, and felt a wave of relief rush over him when Andrew returned it.

“What d’you think I should do?” Ian asked finally.

“Why the hell are you asking me?” Andrew huffed. “It’s not like you ever listen to what I’ve got to say anyway.”

“C’mon, please?”

Heaving a sigh, Andrew slumped back against his chair. He appeared to be thinking through everything Ian had said.

“Well,” he said at last, “since you’re too much of a stubborn jackass to do the smart thing and leave it alone, I’d say you should try talking to him. Y’know, reassure him that you aren’t going to tell anyone about what happened.”

“Kinda hard since he’s pretending I don’t exist. I’ve seen him once since that night, and he almost broke the land-speed record trying to get away from me.”

“Might wanna try taking a hint?” Andrew suggested pointedly.

“I guess,” Ian mumbled, hating the idea of just giving up.

Andrew rolled his eyes, sighing again.

“That wall between your apartments, it’s like, stupidly thin, right?” At Ian’s nod, Andrew continued, “So try talking to him through that before you go to sleep. You’ve done it before. Although, as your friend, I gotta tell you that you’re just towing the creepy stalker line, here.”

They didn’t stay at the restaurant for much longer after that. Parting ways a half hour later, Andrew took the bus to his family’s convenience store, while Ian headed to the apartment Fiona was sharing with Jimmy for another wedding planning session.

 _One more time_ , Ian thought as he stepped into the elevator. _He’d try with Mickey one more time._

_\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

“Right, we’ve got three weeks until the Lishman wedding, so we’re gonna need to get organised,” Alfred announced on Tuesday afternoon. “I need all hands on deck, and everyone has to know what’s happening. Debbie, we’re gonna—”

“Wait, Lishman wedding?” Red—or Debbie, apparently—interrupted. “That’s gonna be a problem; my sister’s getting married.”

“You mean your sister’s getting married on the same day?” Alfred asked in horror.

“Uh, no. I mean, I’m pretty sure that’s her wedding. Candace Lishman? That’s her fiancé’s mom.”

“Oh, God, Debbie, don’t tell me that!” their boss said pleadingly.

“I’m really sorry.”

“Hold up. What’s the problem?” Mickey asked, speaking at last. He glanced between Alfred and Red in question.

A pained look from Alfred; an impatient one from Red.

“If Debbie’s sister is getting married,” his boss explained slowly, “then she can’t be helping us out behind the scenes, now can she?”

“No big deal. We can handle shit by ourselves.”

Instead of reassuring Alfred, Mickey’s words only seemed to make the other man even more distraught. But before he could say anything else, Red cut in.

“Mickey’s right,” she said, wrinkling her nose a little. Obviously not words she’d ever thought she’d say. “It’s a small wedding. Fifty people, max. You and Mickey will be fine.”

After a moment, Alfred gave a resigned nod. He sank down into the seat behind the register; shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Or maybe we can get someone off craigslist,” Mickey suggested.

The only response he received was two aggravated glares.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nightmares were something that Mickey had grown accustomed to during his life. When he was a kid, they’d been about what would happen if his mom left him alone with Terry. After Nataliya had died, and the reality had lived up to the nightmare, Mickey’s bad dreams had centred around what his father would do if he found out that Mickey liked to fuck guys.

That reality had been far worse.

So now, Mickey’s nightmares revolved around Adam.

In his dream, Mickey was staring down the barrel of a gun. His father’s rough voice issuing a command that made his blood run cold.

_“Do it, boy. If you don’t, I will.”_

Landing that first blow had killed something inside Mickey. Adam’s moans and broken pleas were a macabre parody of what Mickey had gotten used to hearing. The sounds that had once told Mickey how good he was making his friend feel were now an indication of how much he’s actions were hurting the other man.

Mickey wanted to be sick.

He could hear yelling. Yelling and banging, and the sounds dragged him back to reality. His throat hurt, and his blankets were twisted around him. Chest heaving as he desperately fought for air, Mickey realised that his neighbour was once again pounding on the wall that separated them.

“What?” he called out, his voice nothing more than a hoarse croak.

“Jesus Christ, Mick, I thought you were being killed in there,” Gallagher said, sounding weirdly concerned. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Mickey snapped. He hoped his harsh tone would make the other man drop it.

A moment of silence and for a short time Mickey thought that maybe the Bug Guy upstairs was finally cutting him some slack. Except, much like Lucy screwing with that dumb fuck Charlie Brown, it was just a ploy to get Mickey to lower his guard a little.

“Nightmares again?” Gallagher asked.

“For fuck’s sake!” Mickey exploded. “Why can’t you just mind your own goddamn business, for fuckin’ once?”

The other man fell quiet again. This time the silence lasted longer; for some fucked up reason, Mickey found himself holding his breath.

“I remember when my brother and sister used to have nightmares,” Gallagher said finally, his tone casual. “One time, Carl dreamed that Scar from _The Lion King_ was after him.” Here the other man gave a little laugh. “If you knew Carl, you’d know how weird that was. He was six, but even then he wasn’t afraid of anything. Except a make believe lion.”

As he listed to Gallagher’s calm voice, Mickey could feel the tension draining out of his body. Instead of thinking about the horror show that sometimes went on in his own head, Mickey let the childish fears of Gallagher’s faceless siblings soothe him.

“And Debs, she had this recurring nightmare where all her teeth fell out,” the other man continued.

“That’s fuckin’ creepy,” Mickey spoke without thinking.

“Yeah,” Gallagher said, sounding pleased that Mickey had responded. “But she’s always been weird with her teeth. Don’t know where she gets it from.”

It took a while for Gallagher to start talking again, and Mickey worried that that was it for their conversation. He was wracking his brain for something else to say, to get Gallagher to keep speaking to him, when Gallagher’s voice came through the wall again.

“Sometimes I have nightmares that I’m all alone. I’m in this huge open space, and I know my family’s waiting for me. Only they can't find me. So it’s just me.”

“I dunno, man,” Mickey said at last. “That don’t sound so bad to me.”

Neither of them said anything after that.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While he stood there, he began formulating plans as to how he and his brothers were going to get in there. Mickey was just wondering what to do with Cerberus when he heard a familiar voice calling his name.
> 
> “Mickey, hey!” 
> 
> “You’ve got to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me,” Mickey muttered under his breath.

Mickey didn’t understand why people had to have such big houses. Seriously, what was the point of having a place with so many rooms that you didn’t have a use for them all? He figured it was just one of those rich people things.

It was early, too fucking early for a Saturday morning, and Mickey was waiting for Alfred outside Candace Lishman’s enormous home. He could’ve gone inside to start setting up, but was instead strolling around the grounds. For such a swanky place, the security was for shit.

Good to know.

Watching as a bunch of people made last minute checks to the venue and the little dais where baby Lishman was going to tie the knot with his ghetto girl; Mickey felt his phone vibrating in his back pocket.

Only one person it could be at this time of the morning.

“What?” Mickey barked in answer.

“Where the hell are you?” Alfred demanded in a strained voice. “I need you in here helping me set up!”

“Just checkin’ out the garden, see if there any good spots for outdoorsy pictures,” he lied easily.

“Never mind that! I need you over here right now.”

Mickey stared at his phone for a moment after his boss unceremoniously hung up on him. It was like Alfred to get pissy like this, so instead of taking his sweet time like he normally would, Mickey hurried it up a little.

He’d just stepped up to the front door when it swung open. The housekeeper gave him a suspicious look, her eyes lingering to his worn sneakers and tattooed knuckles.

“Uh, I’m here to do the pictures for the weddin’,” Mickey said when the woman continued to glare at him.

“The photographers are already here,” she told him stiffly.

_Photographers? As in plural?_ Mickey thought in bewilderment.

“I’m with ‘em,” Mickey said, shaking the confusion off quickly.

And still the housekeeper didn’t budge. Maybe the security was better than he’d thought.

“Wait here. I’ll go ask.” She then promptly shut the door in his face.

Mickey felt impatience tug at him as he was forced to wait outside like he was some sort of fucking criminal.

_Well, okay, technically he was, but it still bugged the hell out of him._

While he stood there, he began formulating plans as to how he and his brothers were going to get in there. Mickey was just wondering what to do with Cerberus when he heard a familiar voice calling his name.

“Mickey, hey!”

“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me,” Mickey muttered under his breath.

Slowly turning around, he watched as Ian Gallagher came toward him. But what had Mickey’s jaw dropping was the fact that Red, the studio assistant, was walking alongside the other man.

And there was no way anyone with eyes could miss the family resemblance.

He was an idiot.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“How d’you know Mickey?” Debbie asked in a low voice as they approached the dark haired man.

“We’re neighbours,” he answered just as quietly. “And wait a minute. How do _you_ know who he is?”

“I work with him,” his sister said, pulling a face. “He’s that jackass photographer I told you about.”

_Mickey was a photographer?_

But before Ian could ask about it, they came up to where the other man was standing on the front steps.

“What are you waiting out here for?” Debbie asked impatiently.

“Fuckin’ crypt keeper wouldn’t let me in,” he grumbled. It was clear he was distracted, though; his eyes were flicking between Ian and Debbie, his expression disgruntled.

Eyebrows raised in question, all Ian got in response was a scowl, and a muttered, “Should’ve fuckin’ known.”

“You wanna come in?” Ian asked after a moment, deciding to ignore the other man’s surly grumbling.

“Course not,” Mickey said sarcastically. “I’d rather stand out here with my dick in my hand.”

He seemed to think about what he’d said just a moment too late; Ian gave the other man a wicked grin as he flushed in embarrassment.

Aware of Debbie glancing between them curiously, Ian resisted the urge to give voice to the first thing that’d crossed his mind—that that was something he wouldn’t mind seeing—and instead opened the door to let them all in.

Stepping aside so Debbie could enter the house first, Ian waited until his sister’s back was turned before giving Mickey an appreciative once over.

“The fuck you lookin’ at?” he huffed, shifting slightly under the weight of Ian’s scrutiny.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this cleaned up,” Ian answered with a shrug.

And it was true. The dark, fitted shirt and skinny jeans were a world away from the ratty, baggy clothes Mickey usually wore. The guy had really nice legs.

Mickey scowled at him again as they followed behind Debbie. Even though there was a hint of self-consciousness to the way the other man tugged at the hem of his shirt, his eyes were assessing as he took in the lavishly decorated front entrance.

It was easy to recognise that look after so many years of living on the South Side. Ian spoke in a low voice.

“I wouldn’t try it.”

The other man sent a startled look in his direction. Ian could see it in his eyes; Mickey knew he knew what was going on in Mickey’s head, and Mickey was going to try to brazen it out.

“No idea what you’re talkin’ about, man.”

Before Ian could do anything more than scoff, they heard a strident voice yelling in their direction.

“I thought I told you to wait outside!”

They both turned around to find Hannah, the Lishman housekeeper-slash-last-line-of-defence, barrelling towards them. The tiny woman was bristling with indignation, her glare fixed firmly on Mickey.

“Hannah, relax, it’s okay,” Ian said hastily, stepping between Mickey and the housekeeper. “He’s with me.”

“He said he’s with the photographers,” Hannah growled.

“That’s ‘cause I am,” Mickey interjected loudly.

“Yeah, he is, and I was just letting him in so we don’t waste any more time. We need the wedding to go off perfectly, remember?” Ian tried to placate the scowling woman.

Mention of the wedding seemed to calm her down some. Still, that didn’t lessen the suspicion in her gaze as she looked between Ian and Mickey.

“They’re waiting for him in the drawing room,” she told Ian. “And you,” Hannah turned to Mickey fiercely, “just remember that I’m watching you.”

They waited until the woman was out of earshot before speaking again.

“Like I said,” Ian continued, “I wouldn’t try it.”

“Uh-huh.”

Grinning at the slightly shell shocked expression on Mickey’s face; Ian led him toward where the other photographers were waiting for him.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey had had just about enough of scary, pushy women. One of the major benefits of the weekend was not having to deal with them; two blissful days of not having orders and insults hurled at him by demanding females.

Only today, that wasn’t happening. So far, Mickey had had to deal with Red giving him the stank eye; the housekeeper from hell was gunning for him; and now, he had to deal with an ill-tempered Russian woman.

Add to that the fact that Gallagher was running around somewhere, and it was enough to have Mickey feeling like he was in the goddamn twilight zone.

As soon as the redhead left, Alfred was introducing Mickey to the strange brunette woman he’d brought with him.

“This is Svetlana,” he said briskly. “She’s going to be helping us out today. Svetlana, this is Mickey.”

The woman nodded at him in greeting; instead of returning the gesture, Mickey turned to his boss.

“Where’d you find her?” he asked.

“Craigslist,” Alfred answered without looking at him.

Mickey let out a bark of laughter. A heavily accented voice broke in before he could say anything else.

“I have experience with camera.” Svetlana said, glaring at him.

“Yeah? Doin’ what?” Mickey challenged. “Providin’ a firsthand account of what the inside of a shippin’ container looks like?”

“No. I work in adult film industry,” she corrected him icily.

“You’re a porn star?”

“No, _mudak_ , I help with setting up lighting and other such things. Also, the men were fucking each other. They have little interest in me.”

Arms crossed, Svetlana smirked at Mickey as he struggled to come up with a response.

“Okay, you two, that’s enough,” Alfred interrupted, saving Mickey from having to think of something clever. “You’re both going to be civil, you hear me? You’re going to work together, and we’re going to pull this off, because this is too important for either of you to screw up.”

Mickey grudgingly muttered his agreement, while the Russian gave a reluctant shrug. Looking back and forth between them, Alfred checked each of their expressions, as if gauging their sincerity. Apparently satisfied, the other man gave a determined nod.

“Alright, people, let’s do this.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And so they got to work. Pictures of place settings, flower arrangements, the reception area, the garden and raised dais where the ceremony would be held.

That was the easy part, and Mickey and Svetlana managed to work relatively well together despite their earlier argument.

The guests began trickling in. Alfred took charge of chivvying people into the right position to have their pictures taken, leaving Mickey behind the camera. It was probably for the best; Mickey’s questionable people skills would likely have ended up offending someone.

Everything was going fine until Mickey spotted Gallagher; he nearly swallowed his tongue at the sight of the redhead. Dressed in a fitted black suit, the contrast between Gallagher’s red hair, pale skin, and the dark fabric was striking. Dragging his gaze down Gallagher’s lean body, Mickey was struck by the powerful urge to get the other man alone.

Until his attention shifted to the figure standing next to Gallagher.

Tall, broad shoulders, and dark skin, Gallagher’s date came damn close to putting him to shame; together, they were every gay man’s wet dream.

“Mickey!” Alfred’s impatient voice cut through his musings sharply. Glancing up, Mickey saw his boss giving him an irritated look.

“What?” he asked defensively.

“I asked if you can handle things from here. Svetlana and I need to find a good spot to film the ceremony.”

“Yeah, man, whatever. Don’t need you and Soviet Lana with me to do my fuckin’ job.”

That earned him a dark look from Alfred; Svetlana took a threatening step forward before Alfred put a hand on her arm to calm her. Shaking his head, Alfred indicated that she should follow him; muttering sullenly in Russian, she complied, leaving Mickey alone with the wedding guests.

Going through the motions, Mickey did his best to ignore the way Gallagher and his date were ducking their heads and whispering together. He took pictures of Red and the muscle head whose arm she was holding onto; some dark haired kid with a tiny blonde in sky high heels; a middle-aged couple who appeared to be fall-down-drunk already.

And then it was Gallagher’s turn.

Mickey couldn’t help the little spike of jealousy he felt, watching Gallagher and his date together. They both seemed completely comfortable as the taller man wrapped his arm around Gallagher’s shoulders. Leaning down a little, the black guy whispered something in Gallagher’s ear, earning himself a laugh and a little elbow to the ribs.

“Stand still, an’ look at the fuckin’ camera,” Mickey barked, losing control of his temper. He was in no mood to watch Gallagher making cow eyes at someone else.

“Excuse me?” The black man’s eyebrows shot up, and he gave Mickey a disbelieving look.

Belatedly remembering the importance of _professionalism_ , Mickey tried to calm down. He was just about to force out an apologiy when Gallagher’s date continued in a loud voice.

“Do you have a problem with us being gay?” he demanded.

“No, I got a problem with you wastin’ my time, Shaft.”

That had probably been the wrong thing to say. The only thing that kept the man from launching himself at Mickey was the fact that Gallagher had stepped between them.

Another man hurried forward, adding his weight to Gallagher’s. It took a few minutes, but they finally managed to talk the big guy down. Stepping back cautiously, Gallagher appeared to be checking that his date was on the level.

“It’s good. We’re all good,” he murmured soothingly. Gallagher slid his arm around the black man’s waist, and smiled up at him.

Mickey automatically took the shot.

A minute later, Gallagher’s date stalked off, leaving a fuming redhead in his wake. Watching as Gallagher marched up to him, Mickey braced himself for the other man’s reaction.

“What’s the matter with you?” Gallagher demanded in a low voice. “D’you piss people off wherever you go?”

Not giving him a chance to respond, Gallagher quickly headed in the direction his date had gone.

It took a minute for him to unclench his jaw. Turning to the couple now standing before him, Mickey tried to grasp hold of that whole _professional_ thing again. The same guy who’d kept Gallagher’s boyfriend from ripping Mickey’s head off was standing with his arm around a woman of Filipino descent.

“I’m gonna be talkin’ to your boss about that little bitch fit you just threw,” the man said with a smirk.

“Fuck off,” Mickey snapped back, the art of professionalism once again proving elusive.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re sorry to have kept everybody waiting,” a loud voice said suddenly. It was the guy from earlier, the one who’d threatened to narc on Mickey. Gallagher was standing just behind the blond man, his expression stressed. “But we thought we’d be the first to tell you that there probably isn’t going to be a wedding today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Saturday night, and I'm so extremely bored. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter.

Ian shifted uncomfortably, sweating a little under the dark material of his suit. Around him, the other guests were beginning to get restless too. People were whispering, craning their necks to see what the holdup was. Standing at the altar, Jimmy and his father looked to be having a serious discussion, both their brows furrowed.

“Straight people always take so damn long to get married?” Andrew asked testily from beside Ian. He’d been in a shitty mood ever since his run-in with Mickey.

Not that Ian could blame him.

“I’m sure there’s a reason why she’s running late,” he murmured in response.

Looking over his shoulder in the hopes that Fiona would magically appear, finally getting this wedding on the road after almost forty five minutes of waiting, Ian spotted Veronica Fisher hurrying up the aisle. V, Fi’s best friend and the maid of honour, was wearing a brightly coloured, skin-tight dress, and towering heels; he’d caught Jimmy’s brother ogling her more than once.

But the part of V’s ensemble that really caught his attention was the concerned look she wore on her face.

She stopped in front of Lip, leaning down to whisper urgently in his ear. Ian watched as his brother frowned; looking across the distance that separated them, their eyes met, and Lip jerked his head for Ian to follow him as he got up.

“Give me a minute,” Ian whispered to a still irritable Andrew.

He didn’t wait for the other man to reply, hastily trailing behind Lip and an agitated V. Noticing that Debbie and Carl were on the verge of getting up too, Ian motioned for them to stay in their seats. They didn’t want to draw too much attention.

V was leading them back towards the main house, moving quickly despite her killer heels; Lip and Ian had to jog to catch up with her.

“What’s goin’ on?” Lip asked as he finally came up alongside her.

“We’ve got a big fuckin’ problem,” she answered tightly.

“Lemme guess,” his brother said, sounding amused. “Fi’s gettin’ cold feet? And she’s locked herself in the bathroom, or something.”

“I don’t know where she is,” V said, coming to an abrupt halt.

“What d’you mean, you don’t know where she is?” Ian asked in confusion.

“Exactly what I said!” Drawing in a deep breath, V spoke in a slightly calmer voice. “She said that it felt like the strap of her gown was a little loose. So I went to get the sewing kit, but when I got back she was gone.”

There was an apprehensive silence.

_“Shit_ ,” Lip muttered at last.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Jesus Christ, how long do these fuckin’ things take?” Mickey grumbled.

“Can it,” Alfred growled from beside him.

Glancing around the garden, Mickey saw that he wasn’t the only one wondering what was taking so goddamn long. He managed to bite his tongue for a few minutes before speaking again.

“Ten bucks says she bailed,” he said with a snigger.

The younger guy standing at the altar looked up as Mickey’s words carried; Mickey figured him to be the groom. His face flushed with anger as he met Mickey’s gaze.

Alfred noticed, and turned to Mickey with a scowl.

“I swear to God, if you don’t stop talking, I’m gonna—”

“We’re sorry to have kept everybody waiting,” a loud voice said suddenly. It was the guy from earlier, the one who’d threatened to narc on Mickey. Gallagher was standing just behind the blond man, his expression stressed. “But we thought we’d be the first to tell you that there probably isn’t going to be a wedding today.”

Shocked murmurs raced around the garden, and Mr Runaway Groom stared ahead of him blankly, apparently frozen in place. Their expressions a mixture of sympathy and resignation, Gallagher and the town crier approached the guy cautiously. Well, Gallagher looked sympathetic. The guy next to him looked like he was trying not to burst out laughing. And still, the groom didn’t move.

Feeling a sharp jab to his ribs, Mickey looked up at his boss to find the man shifting uncomfortably beside him.

“Uh, maybe we should go,” Alfred suggested quietly.

“The fuck for?”

“If there isn’t gonna be a wedding, there’s no reason for us to be here. Besides,” the other man continued as the voices of the guests got louder, “this is obviously a private matter.”

Struck by sudden inspiration, Mickey turned to Alfred, affecting an irritated expression.

“Fine, man, whatever,” he said with a shrug. “But, uh... didn’t you bring somethin’ with you?”

A blank look before understanding dawned.

“Damn it, I forgot about Svetlana,” Alfred said, eyes widening. He craned his neck in an attempt to spot her in the crowd. A moment later, the other man gave a tired sigh as he gave up. “I want you to find her while I pack up,” he told Mickey.

Fighting back a triumphant smile, Mickey forced himself to scowl instead.

“Why do I gotta look for her? Bitch likes you better.”

“First of all, lose the attitude. I’m thinking about hiring her on a more permanent basis, so you two need to learn to work together. And also, because I said so. Now, get moving,” Alfred ordered.

An aggrieved sigh, some irritable muttering, and Mickey was home free.

_He was gonna check out the house._

_\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

“What d’you mean, the wedding isn’t happening today?” Jimmy demanded. “Why the hell not?”

“Fiona’s not... here,” Ian answered slowly, wincing a little as the other man’s face reddened. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Mickey watching the proceedings with an entertained expression.

_Asshole._

“You wanna tell me _where the fuck she went_?” Jimmy’s voice was rising to a shout, his chest heaving with anger.

“Pretty sure she took off with Gus. At least, that’s what her note said,” Lip chipped in helpfully.

“Who the fuck is Gus? What the fuck is going on here?”

The guests who’d previously been talking amongst themselves were beginning to fall silent, all their attention centring on the irate Jimmy. Ian could hear a shrill voice coming closer, and braced himself for things to get worse.

But not before his brother managed to get a few digs in.

“You don’t recognise the name? Gus Pfender. Guitarist from the wedding band you hired. Y’know,” Lip continued sardonically, “dark hair, beard? Looks like you but only... manlier.”

Ian bit back a groan.

Naturally, that was when Candace decided to join the fray.

“What’s going on? Where’s Fiona?” she demanded.

“She decided to skip the wedding,” Lip answered cheerfully.

The woman gave him a blank look before quickly rallying.

“I told you that you were making a mistake getting involved with that ghetto whore!” Candace said loudly. “And I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Congrats, Mrs Lishman,” Lip added, smirking when she glared at him.

Deciding to let his brother fend for himself—he clearly had this whole thing covered—Ian slowly backed away. He was dying for a cigarette at this point; and he’d rather kill himself slowly by smoking than listen to Candace’s screechy voice for another minute.

He skirted around the buzzing crowd, hurrying so no one could stop to ask him questions. That was when he spotted a dark clad figure heading towards the house; Ian paused as he recognised the cocky swagger.

_What the fuck?_

It took a second for understanding to dawn. Then, all Ian could do was shake his head in amazement.

_That opportunistic little bastard._

Torn between laugher and annoyance, Ian followed behind the other man. He’d give Mickey this much; it took balls to try this today. Then again, it was probably the best time to do it. Hannah would be working in the kitchen, and the rest of the staff would be too busy to question one stranger since the house would be crawling with them.

Apparently unconcerned, Mickey rounded the building, heading for the front of the house. But every now and then, he’d take a quick glance over his shoulder, so Ian found himself doing that whole stupid cloak-and-dagger thing in an effort to keep Mickey from spotting him. It was bugging the hell out of him, but he was curious to see what Mickey’s plan was, how he intended to get anything truly valuable out of there.

His attempts at stealth meant that Mickey had disappeared inside by the time Ian made it to the front of the house. Swearing under his breath, he took the steps two at a time before quietly pushing the front door open.

The entryway and formal living room were deserted. Made sense; there was nothing in there small enough for Mickey to carry. Glad for all the painful family dinners that he and his siblings had had to endure with the Lishmans, Ian made his way through the big house with some confidence.

Checking in every room on the ground floor, Ian was just preparing to head upstairs when he found the other man. The study’s door was slightly ajar, and inside the room, Mickey was rifling through drawers and papers on the desk, taking the occasional swig from a tumbler of whiskey.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Ian demanded sharply.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sound of a low voice intruding suddenly into the quiet had Mickey jumping a little in surprise.

“ _Motherfucker_ ,” he gasped out.

Quickly, Mickey turned around to find Gallagher leaning against the doorway to the study. The redhead’s expression was an interesting mixture of amusement and irritation, and Mickey felt his pulse speed up.

Gallagher looked damn good in that suit.

“I asked you a question,” the other man barked, irritation apparently winning out over anything funny he may have seen in the situation.

There was something bout Gallagher’s tone that turned Mickey on. Taking a brazen pull from the glass in his hand, he smirked at the redhead.

“Just havin’ a look ‘round.”

“Looking for what?” Gallagher asked, stepping further into the room. He pushed the door shut behind him.

A tingle of anticipation ran down Mickey’s spine. It was stupid to pull this kind of shit here, with Gallagher of all fucking people, but his common sense shut down as he heard the quiet snick of the door being locked.

“This place is nice,” Mickey answered, attempting to be casual. He didn’t think it was working. “Ain’t never been somewhere so fancy before.”

“And you’re looking for an expensive memento?”

Gallagher had stopped just in front of him by this point. Running his gaze leisurely over Mickey’s body, the other man stopped at his crotch. Mickey could feel his face heat up a little as Gallagher saw that he was hard.

He met Gallagher’s hooded stare. The redhead appeared to be waiting for Mickey to say something.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” he asked, his voice slightly hoarse.

That earned him a blank look.

“The big guy who wanted to crush my skull,” Mickey clarified. He felt that same bite of jealousy from earlier, and it pissed him off.

“Who, Andrew? He’s just a friend. And,” here Gallagher’s irritation made reappearance, temporarily eclipsing the lust, “you kind of deserved it.”

“Just a friend, huh? A friend you fuck?” Mickey asked, ignoring the rest of Gallagher’s commentary. Again, the fact that he felt compelled to ask frustrated him; although, he wasn’t sure who his anger was directed at, himself or Gallagher.

“Only person I’m interested in fucking right now is you,” Gallagher told him with a cocky smirk.

Reaching out, the redhead cupped Mickey through his jeans; the contact caused Mickey to inhale sharply. His hands were unsteady as he lowered the glass of whiskey onto the desk; he then gripped the edges of the thing until his knuckles turned white.

Gallagher closed the remaining distance between them, staring at Mickey as he squeezed Mickey’s cock teasingly. That hand coupled with his intent green gaze was too much; Mickey closed his eyes, choosing to focus on the pleasure he felt at Gallagher’s touch on his dick.

He wanted more, harder. But Gallagher spoke before he could start getting pushy.

“You got condoms, lube?” the redhead asked, fingers sliding up the fly of Mickey’s jeans to toy with the top button.

The light touch was distracting, and it took a minute for the words to pierce through the heavy fog that had descended on Mickey’s brain.

“Didn’t expect to get ploughed while I was workin’,” Mickey answered, out of breath. He could feel his zipper being inched down slowly.

“Me neither,” Gallagher said regretfully.

Those tormenting hands fell away, and Mickey wanted to cry out in protest. Until he saw Gallagher drop to his knees; that shut him up pretty quick.

“Guess we’ll have to find something else to do,” the other man murmured.

Mickey watched mutely as Gallagher tugged his jeans and boxers down his hips and thighs, freeing his aching dick. The sight of the other man licking his lips in anticipation had Mickey clutching at the desk even harder. And when Gallagher lapped at the beads of precum leaking from the head of his cock, it was all Mickey could do to keep his legs from giving out.

Teasing touches; Gallagher was all about drawing things out. Quick flicks of his tongue; gentle tugs on Mickey’s balls; tiny, nibbling kisses along Mickey’s hipbone. He would’ve mistaken it for tenderness—would’ve freaked the fuck out—if it weren’t for the wicked look in the other man’s eyes.

“You wanna hurry the fuck up?” Mickey muttered thickly.

“Always trying to rush me.” Gallagher shook his head in mock disappointment. His fingers moved from Mickey’s balls to his perineum, making Mickey gasp in surprise.

A part of Mickey—the part currently in Gallagher’s mouth—wanted to let the redhead do whatever the fuck he wanted. But the tiny part of his brain that was still functioning remembered that Alfred would be looking for him soon. He said as much to Gallagher.

He could hear the other man grumbling, but the words didn’t register; his entire focus was on the way the redhead’s warm breath felt against his skin. Then Mickey’s brain short-circuited completely.

Lips parting to take Mickey into his mouth, the feel of Gallagher warm and wet around him made Mickey groan. Starting slowly, the other man gradually picked up his pace, bobbing his head as he sucked on Mickey’s dick with apparent relish. Wet, suckling noises, the feel of hollowed cheeks, and the light scrap of teeth; Mickey didn’t notice when his hands released the desk to clench themselves in Gallagher’s hair.

His hips thrust helplessly, following the rhythm the other man had set. Mickey was only vaguely aware of Gallagher’s fingers digging into his thighs. Control beginning to splinter, he fought to get the words out.

“Gallagher... _Christ_ ,” he panted as he felt himself hit the back of Gallagher’s throat. “ _Fuck_ , I’m gonna... gonna...”

The lusty moan of approval from the man on his knees vibrated through Mickey’s dick, and that was all it took. Head falling back, he came, barely remembering to bite back the little grunts of pleasure threatening to escape him.

Body shuddering with aftershocks, Gallagher’s mouth still milking him dry, Mickey’s fuzzy brain tried to recall the last time he’d felt so good. Jesus, even when he’d been with Adam, it hadn’t been like this.

_No, he wasn’t gonna go there._

He looked down as he felt Gallagher pull away. His hair was mussed from where Mickey’s fingers had threaded through it; watching Gallagher’s tongue darting out to lick up the few errant drops of cum lingering at the corners of his swollen lips was enough to make Mickey’s dick twitch again.

Forcing his gaze away from the debauched image Gallagher presented, Mickey tucked himself back into his boxers, and did up his jeans with trembling fingers.

Mickey felt awkward as he noticed that the other man was sporting an erection behind the zipper of his fancy suit.

“You, uh... you want me to...?” he gestured lamely at Gallagher’s crotch.

A smile in response, and Mickey felt himself bristling defensively.

“Nah, I’m good,” the redhead replied. “You should probably get going, though. Don’t want anyone to find you in here like this.”

Taken aback by Gallagher’s thoughtfulness, that awkwardness intensified. Rather than say anything else—and risk making an ass of himself—Mickey gave a jerky nod and left the room. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian scowled at the harsh assessment of his sister, even as he felt a pang of annoyance at Fiona. While he didn’t blame her for not wanting to go through with the wedding—if for no other reason than that she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life putting up with Jimmy’s mom—her timing could’ve been better.

Ian released an unsteady breath once Mickey had left the room. Shit, he couldn’t believe he’d just done that, in here of all goddamn places. Last time he’d been in Ned’s study, the older man had propositioned him.

_Good a way as any to replace that memory,_ Ian mused.

Still, that hadn’t been the plan. He felt a pang of guilt for cornering Mickey, even though the asshole had come in here with the intention of stealing. Ian gave a reluctant grin at the thought. He didn’t know why, but there was something... endearing about the unapologetic way the other man made his way through life.

_Oh, yeah. He was definitely smitten._

Shaking his head in exasperation at himself, Ian began straightening his clothes, willing his boner to subside so he could go out in public without adding public indecency to the list of reasons why this almost-wedding had been a disaster. He caught sight of the whiskey Mickey’d helped himself to; no use in letting what was left go to waste. The burn of the alcohol washed the taste of Mickey’s cum from his mouth.

Finally, Ian left the study. Taking a quick look around, Ian strode out of the room and made his way out the house. He wondered if the guests had cleared out, or if they were enjoying the ringside seats they had to the latest Gallagher family drama.

It didn’t take him long to find his family; all he had to do was follow the sound of all the yelling.

“Do you have any idea how much we paid for this wedding? A small fortune! Only for your whore sister to run off with a stranger?” Mrs Lishman was shrieking.

Ian scowled at the harsh assessment of his sister, even as he felt a pang of annoyance at Fiona. While he didn’t blame her for not wanting to go through with the wedding—if for no other reason than that she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life putting up with Jimmy’s mom—her timing could’ve been better.

Most of the guests had left, with only a few people milling about. In the middle of the lavishly decorated garden were Lip and Carl, and the irate Lishman family. Debbie had one arm around Liam’s shoulders as they stood a few feet away from the melee.

“Where have you been?” Debbie demanded in a quiet voice as Ian came up beside her.

“Went for a smoke break,” he lied. “How bad is it?”

That earned him an impatient look.

“’Bout as bad as you’d expect. And Lip just keeps making it worse,” she whispered. “Candace is going to scratch his eyes out.”

_Yeah, their brother had that affect on people._

Leaving Debbie there with Liam, Ian hurried over to where the shouting match had escalated. There was a vein throbbing in Jimmy’s head as Lip smirked at him; Ian was a few steps away when the dark haired man took a wild swing at his brother.

“What the fuck!” Carl yelled, shoving Jimmy back, away from where Lip had landed on his ass on the ground.

Their brother appeared unperturbed by the other man’s outburst. Reaching up to take Ian’s offered hand, Lip offered Jimmy a sympathetic wince as he got to his feet.

“Yeah, I can kinda see why my sister left,” he said, gingerly wiping at the corner of his mouth. “She’s not really into chicks.”

Ian rolled his eyes; he was tempted to follow Jimmy’s example. Why couldn’t Lip ever keep his goddamn mouth shut?

“Jesus, would you just stop talking,” he growled at his brother. Seeing that Carl looked ready to retaliate, Ian wondered if today was just going to deteriorate into an all-out brawl. “Carl, leave it,” he barked as the young man took a threatening step toward Jimmy. “Let’s just get going.”

The kid halted reluctantly. Scowling, he came over to where Lip and Ian were standing.

“He called Fi a slut,” Carl muttered, his fists clenched angrily. He looked about ready to put Jimmy in the hospital. “He shouldn’t talk about her like that.”

“Yeah, I know, man,” Lip answered quietly. All traces of amusement had faded from his tone; instead, he looked as angry as their younger brother did.

Turning away from where the Lishmans were glaring at them, Lip put his arm around Carl’s shoulders and led him away from the scene. Ian glanced over at Debbie and Liam, and gestured for them to hurry up.

None of them spoke as they left the property. They’d just stepped through the front gate when Ian abruptly remembered that he’d brought a date to this shit show.

“Fuck! Hold up, I need to find Andrew,” he said, furious at himself for forgetting about his friend. Pulling out his cell, he hastily scrolled through his contact list; his siblings gave him impatient looks, but he ignored them.

The phone rang once, twice, with Andrew picking up after the third ring.

“Hey, man,” he answered in that deep voice.

“Andrew, I am so sorry,” Ian rushed to apologise. “Where are you?”

“Uh... I left,” Andrew answered sheepishly.

“What?”

“It’s just that it looked like a family thing,” the other man explained. “I noticed that you’d disappeared, and I figured that with all the shit that was going down, you didn’t need to be worrying about me, too.”

And didn’t that make Ian feel like an asshole? Guilt churning inside him since, for a little while at least, his family’s drama had been the last thing on his mind, he couldn’t stop himself from apologising again.

“Jeez, I’m really sorry you had to be here for this. Make it up to you?” Ian asked hopefully.

“Ian, relax, man,” Andrew laughed. “It’s no big deal. Not gonna lie, it made me feel like I was in a soap opera. It was great.”

Heaving a deep sigh once he’d hung up, Ian turned back to his siblings. Carl had gone for the car, and Debbie and Lip were both giving him expectant looks.

“What?” he asked defensively.

“Just wondering where you went,” Lip answered with a shrug. But his casual tone was at odds with the intent way he was staring at Ian.

“I told you, I went for a smoke.”

“Thought you’d planned on quitting?”

“We were in a stressful situation.” Ian shifted uneasily as his brother continued to give him that piercing look. Not liking being the centre of attention, he hastily changed the subject.

“Didn’t you guys bring dates?” he asked, looking around as though expecting said plus-ones to come leaping into view from out of nowhere.

“I asked Amanda to take ‘em home.”

“She was okay with that? Being relegated to chauffer?”

Lip gave him a dark look, but was interrupted by the screech of tires heading in their direction. Carl pulled up in front of them, and silently thanking God and whatever other deity that may have been listening, Ian got into the back with Debbie and Liam. Before anyone could say anything, Carl slammed his foot onto the accelerator.

The car tore out of the driveway as each of the Gallaghers scrabbled for their seatbelts.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They pulled up outside a McDonalds about a half hour later. Liam and Debbie were hungry, and Carl was always happy to eat. As for Ian, he was just glad to be getting out of the car.

“Remind me,” he said to Lip as he stood on shaky legs, “who taught Carl to drive?”

“Sixth grade girlfriend,” his brother replied with a grin. “An’ don’t worry; I’ll take the keys from him for the ride back.”

Giving a relieved nod, Ian followed his siblings into the restaurant. He was just checking out the menu when Lip’s motivation for stopping became clear.

“Hey, fuckwad,” Lip said to Carl, “order for us, will you? Me an’ Ian are gonna grab a table.”

Ian was a little surprised, but he didn’t argue. He gave Carl his order, and then trailed after his older brother towards a booth at the back. Sliding in, Ian leaned back against the faded upholstery, and loosened his tie.

“Can’t believe she just bailed,” he told his brother tiredly. “And on her fucking wedding day.”

“With a guy in the weddin’ band, of all fuckin’ people,” Lip added.

They stared at each other for a moment before they burst out laughing. The situation was just too ridiculous.

Finally, they quietened down. Lip gave him that same searching look from earlier, and Ian realised that his brother had just wanted to get him alone.

Rather than trying to outstare his brother, or play stupid, Ian gave up.

“I hooked up with the photographer,” he said quietly.

“You did what?” Lip’s voice echoed around the deserted restaurant.

“Jesus Christ, not so loud,” Ian hissed.

His brother stared at him for a moment; then, confusion crossed Lip’s features.

“Hold up, which one? King Julian or the douche bag?” Then indignation replaced the bewilderment, and Lip’s voice got a little louder. “And you seriously left to get laid? Shit, did all the Gallaghers fuck someone workin’ this stupid weddin’?”

Staring at his brother’s face, Ian fought the urge to start laughing again. Lip looked to be torn between disgust and grudging respect.

“It was kind of... an accident,” Ian began lamely. “It was!” he said in response to the other man’s disbelieving scoff. “I was going for a smoke when I saw him sneaking around, and one thing led to another.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But you can’t say anything, okay?” Ian said suddenly. He knew it wasn’t likely that Mickey and Lip would run into each other again, but he needed his brother to reassure him that he wouldn’t go blabbing about it.

Lip gave Ian a strange look.

“Who the fuck am I gonna tell?” he asked blankly.

“It’s just... _Shit._ He’s not out, alright? And he works with Debbie.” Ian mumbled that last part, staring at the sticky table so he wouldn’t have to look at his brother.

A muffled snicker had him looking up. The smirk on Lip’s face had Ian sympathising with Jimmy’s earlier decision to punch the smug asshole in the mouth.

“Just promise me you’ll shut up about it?” he said irritably.

“Hey, name one time I’ve let you down. Your fuck buddy’s secret is safe with me.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey couldn’t sleep. He lay in bed, tossing and turning restlessly, clenching his teeth each time the frame made one of those loud creaking sounds. It’d been close to three hours since he’d returned to his apartment, his mind buzzing with what had happened that afternoon.

In no mood to watch any of the crap on tv, he’d taken a quick shower, and then collapsed onto his bed. Mickey had hoped that sleep would overtake him so he wouldn’t have to think for a little while. No such luck.

He’d left that study with his face flushed, and his breathing uneven. Hurrying through the enormous house so he wouldn’t be caught, he’d bumped right into Alfred and Svetlana, who were gathering up some of the equipment they’d stored in the coat room.

“Where the hell have you been?” Alfred demanded.

“I was lookin’ for you!” Mickey said defensively.

“Jeez,” the other man said with a disgusted shake of his head. “I sent you to get Svetlana almost half an hour ago; instead, I find her, and you’re wondering around in here! I wouldn’t trust you to find your ass with two hands and a map after this!”

“The fuck’s your problem?” Mickey asked without rancour. It wasn’t like Alfred to lose his temper like this.

“My problem,” Alfred gritted out, “is that we wasted an entire day, only for the bride to channel her inner Julia Roberts at her own friggin’ wedding!”

Nodding his understanding, Mickey had stepped forward to help Alfred carry when he’d caught sight of Svetlana staring at him. Something about that look had made him uncomfortable; the knowing smile that had followed immediately after had had him bordering on panic.

But right now, as he lay there, Mickey didn’t give two shits about what the Russian woman thought she knew. All he could think about was Gallagher, and the possible repercussions of screwing his neighbour.

Mickey would be lying if he said he wasn’t freaking out some. Not only had he broken his rule about only fucking strangers, but he’d gotten up close and personal with the same non-stranger more than once.

And all he wanted was to get closer.

The sound of movement coming from next door yanked Mickey sharply back to the here and now. Holding his breath, he listened as Gallagher moved around in his apartment. It was stupid, Mickey knew, but he couldn’t fight back the fluttery feeling in his stomach as he waited for the other man to go to bed.

As Mickey lay there silently, he could hear Gallagher entering his bedroom. Then there was that now familiar _thunk_ of Gallagher’s bed; the sound had become something of a calling card.

There was silence, as though they were each waiting for the other to be the first to speak.

_Fuck it_ , Mickey decided. He wanted to hear Gallagher’s voice.

“You find your sister?” he asked, breaking through the quiet that had settled between them.

Gallagher didn’t answer for a moment, instead letting out an exhausted sounding sigh. Mickey could imagine the other man roughly rubbing a hand over his face before he replied.

“She called us earlier,” Gallagher said finally. “She was just leaving the courthouse.”

“The fuck was she doin’ down there?” Mickey asked in surprise. Then understanding dawned. “Holy shit...”

“Yup. Why waste a perfectly good wedding dress, right?”

“Shit, man. That sucks,” Mickey said awkwardly. He’d never really understood what the big deal was about getting married, but he knew some people took it pretty seriously. Hearing the cynicism and hurt in Gallagher’s voice disturbed Mickey for some reason.

“It’s probably for the best,” Gallagher replied, his tone just a little too casual for Mickey to believe it. “She and Candace fought a lot, and Jimmy’s too much of a mama’s boy to do anything about it. They wouldn’t have lasted long.”

They both fell silent again, and Mickey cast about for a way to change the subject. The other man spoke before he could come up with anything.

“I just... I wish she’d said something, y’know? Instead, she just bails. Takes off with a stranger, and leaves us there with no fucking idea where the hell she went. Left a goddamn note in her bouquet.”

Mickey flinched a little at that. Yeah, that’d been a dick move. Like anyone would be thinking to look at the fucking flowers when a family member was missing.

More silence. Finally, Mickey seized on a way to distract his neighbour. Hoping that it wouldn’t backfire, Mickey spoke in a husky voice.

“Hey, Gallagher...”

“What?” he asked distractedly.

“You know that thing you did earlier... with your mouth?” Mickey was getting hard just thinking about it. He waited breathlessly for the redhead’s response.

“Yeah,” Gallagher answered after a long moment, his voice slightly hoarse. “What about it?”

Encouraged, Mickey’s hand slipped beneath his boxers to take hold of his dick. A few quick strokes and Mickey gave a little moan.

“Want you to do it again.”

He grinned as he heard the bed next-door creak; hearing Gallagher shifting around restlessly.

“I, uh, I could come over. If you want.”

The gravelly quality of Gallagher’s voice sent a thrill up Mickey’s spine. Caught in the grip of a kind of brazenness he never displayed unless committing a crime, he groaned as he rubbed his thumb over the head of his dick.

“Kinda busy right now, Gallagher.”

A guttural curse from the other man as he realised that Mickey wasn’t going to let him in. Then there was the sound of the bed protesting as Gallagher moved around on the thing, presumably to pull his clothes off.

Mickey bit his lip at the mental image of a naked Ian Gallagher. The thought made him pick up speed, jerking at his dick even harder as he crept closer to the edge.

“Stop,” a sharp voice commanded from next door.

Instinct had Mickey complying. His hand immediately stilled, even though it made his teeth clench to lose the friction.

“You got any lube lying around there?” Gallagher asked.

“The fuck d’you think?” Mickey’s hips were bucking slightly, his body silently begging for him to resume what he’d been doing before Gallagher’s rough voice had brought things to a halt.

“I think you’ve got all kinds of things back there.”

Giving a little grunt of agreement, Mickey’s hand dipped away from his cock to tug lightly at his balls. The feeling made his eyes roll back in his head, even as he pretended that it was Gallagher touching him like this. He knew he could easily just get up and unlock the door to let the other man in, but he was having too much fun right now.

Gallagher’s muttered, “ _Fuck_ ,” was muffled by the wall. Then he spoke more clearly.

“Get the lube. I want you to slick yourself up. Do it now.”

Reluctantly pulling his hand away from his throbbing erection, Mickey pawed around the drawer of the bedside table, fumbling for the lube. He found the bottle, flipped the cap open, and then squeezed some into his palm.

“Use your hand on your cock. And with the other, open yourself up. Fuck yourself on your fingers.”

“Bossy asshole,” Mickey muttered, already moving his hands to do as he was told.

His one hand moved easily up and down his cock, while the other slid down to his hole. Circling his entrance once, twice, Mickey slowly pushed two fingers inside himself. A little whine escaped him before he could think to hold it back.

“That’s it, Mick,” the other man panted. “I want to hear you. And when you cum, say my name.”

And like they’d done the last time, Mickey and Ian got off to the sounds of each other’s breathless gasps and pleasured grunts. After several minutes of his fingertips brushing his prostate, Mickey felt like he was going to lose his mind. Hips jerking erratically, his control splintered apart.

“Gallagher!” he called out, his back arching as he came.

He could hear Gallagher’s voice through the thin wall that separated them, but couldn’t make out what the other man was saying. The blood was roaring in his ears, his body shuddering as the pleasure rushed through him. It was as he was coming down that Gallagher’s own cry of release filtered through to him.

Breathing hard, Mickey looked down at his belly, contemplating the pros and cons of going to the bathroom to clean up. He pulled a face at the idea of waking up sticky. Legs unsteady, Mickey tottered out of his room, and hurriedly wiped off the cum with a washcloth.

Unable to hear anything from next door, Mickey figured his neighbour either was putting himself to rights, or had fallen asleep. Exhausted, he collapsed onto his bed, the shitty mattress giving its usual noisy protest.

“That bad, huh?” came the other man’s amused voice.

Mickey could feel a flush creeping across his face in the dark.

“You wore me out,” he answered, trying to hide the fact that he was still breathless.

“Oh, please,” Gallagher scoffed. “You wore yourself out.”

He couldn’t help it; he laughed a little at that. Mickey could hear his neighbour doing the same.

“Good night, Mick,” the other man said a moment later. That commanding self-assurance from earlier was gone, replaced by something more hesitant. Gallagher was waiting for Mickey to blow him off the way he’d done last time.

“Night, Gallagher,” Mickey answered quietly.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I need to talk to you—”
> 
> “The hell d’you think we’re doin’, Gallagher?”
> 
> “—about last night,” Ian finished.

Ian woke up the next morning to the sound of movement coming from next door. Levering himself up onto his elbow, he squinted at his alarm clock. It was just after seven. What the hell was Mickey doing up so early?

Unsure of what kind of reception he’d get, Ian slowly reached out to knock against the adjoining wall.

The noises from the neighbouring apartment came to an abrupt halt.

“Gallagher?” Mickey called in a low voice.

Glad that the other man wasn’t ignoring him, Ian allowed himself a wide yawn, stretching his body languorously.

“You’re up early,” he commented, rolling over so that he was lying on his side, facing the wall.

“Laundry day,” Mickey grunted, the sounds of him moving about in his bedroom resuming. Ian could imagine him picking up random articles of clothing, giving a shirt a cautious sniff before deciding whether it needed to be washed, or if he could get away with wearing it one more time.

“Need help?” Ian asked, searching for a way to bring up last night without things getting weird.

“I’m a grown ass man, Gallagher. Can do my own goddamn laundry.”

Exasperated, Ian blew out a quiet breath. Deciding to skip past subtly—since neither of them seemed to be very good at it—he spoke bluntly.

“I need to talk to you—”

“The hell d’you think we’re doin’, Gallagher?”

“—about last night,” Ian finished.

That shut Mickey up for a minute. Ian could still hear the other man shuffling around in there. Not wanting to give Mickey the chance to come up with some bullshit excuse or, worse, to give him the slip, Ian spoke again.

“Can I come over?”

“No!” Mickey answered immediately.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Ian grumbled. “Mick, I had your dick in my mouth less than twenty four hours ago. Letting me into your apartment shouldn’t be that big a deal.”

“Ain’t gonna happen, Gallagher,” was the firm response.

Ian buried his face in his pillow to muffle his aggravated groan. Lifting his head, he called out testily.

“Why don’t you come over, then? It’s not like you’ve never been inside before.”

A pause, as though Mickey was thinking it over.

“Meet me down in the laundry room,” he said finally.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Ian snapped. Did Mickey seriously want him to haul his ass all the way to the basement for a conversation they could have in his apartment if only Mickey would take the few necessary steps to get there? “You know I’m not asking you to marry me, right? Just a no-strings-attached cup of coffee?”

“Take it or leave it, asswipe,” Mickey retorted.

The sound of the other man puttering about his bedroom faded away, and Ian rolled his eyes. Muttering irritably under his breath, he reluctantly dragged himself out of bed. Ian sat on the edge of the mattress for a moment, mentally cataloguing what he needed to wash.

Well, he could think of one thing.

Heaving himself up, Ian went about stripping the sheets from his bed. He left them lying in a heap on the floor while he went through his morning routine.

Finally ready and mostly conscious, Ian left his apartment, arms filled with his cum-stained sheets and a thermos of coffee. Because one cup just wasn’t going to cut it right now.

By the time Ian made it to the laundry room, he was ready to kick Mickey in the ass. While he normally bounded up and down the stairs with no problem, making his way to the basement at this time of the morning—and with the limited amount of sleep he’d had—was fucking hazardous.

And, add to all that, the goddamn door had wedged itself shut again.

“Mick, open up,” Ian called, giving the door a little kick. Which caused him to wince. He hadn’t bothered with shoes, only taking the time to throw on a pair of threadbare jeans and a tank. Flexing his stinging toes, Ian waited for Mickey to open the door.

He was greeted by an irritable scowl, with blue eyes flashing with temper. Mickey looked about as pissed off as Ian felt.

“You wanna yell a little louder?” Mickey growled, stepping aside to let him in. “Pretty sure there a couple people on the top floor that didn’t fuckin’ hear you.”

_Fucking prick._ The threads of his patience worn thin by the early hour and the other man’s churlish attitude made Ian feel like being an asshole too.

“Hey, Mick!” he bellowed. “You want to—”

“The fuck you doin’?” Mickey whispered frantically, clapping his hand over Ian’s mouth.

Ian glared at his neighbour as he waited for Mickey to lower his arm. He was tempted to lick the other man’s palm, just to see what kind of reaction he’d get, but the look on Mickey’s face warned him that maybe now wasn’t the time.

Bad-tempered muttering as Mickey stepped away from him. Turning his back on Ian, the other man stalked over to the washer that was currently shaking and rattling as Mickey’s clothes spun around inside. He hoisted himself up onto its neighbour, and gave Ian an expectant look.

“What d’you wanna talk about?”

“Uh, how about the fact that my dick was in your ass a couple of days ago? You know, for instance. Or, if you’d prefer something a little more recent, how about we discuss me sucking you off yesterday?”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Flinching at Gallagher’s loud voice, Mickey resisted the urge to tell the redhead to keep it down. Given his current mood, the other man would probably burst into song, just to piss Mickey off.

He took a deep breath, hoping that his voice would be steady when he spoke again.

“There a reason we gotta talk about it? It is what it is. You gonna tell me you had this kinda talk with the other guys you bone?”

“No, but most of those other guys were one-offs. And the thing is that _I don’t know what this is_.” Gallagher sounded frustrated. “Is this a regular thing, or are we saving it for when we’re both horny?”

Gallagher threw his hands up when Mickey didn’t respond.

“I just want to know where we stand, Mick.”

The part of Mickey that wasn’t shying away from Gallagher’s words could understand where the other man was coming from. He wouldn’t want to have some vague, undefined _thing_ hanging over him either. But Mickey had never been a fan of labels, and what Gallagher was asking for was coming perilously close to what Mickey had shared with Adam.

And look at how that had worked out.

Reminding himself that Gallagher wasn’t the naive boy from his past, Mickey offered the redhead a casual shrug.

“Wouldn’t mind it happenin’ again,” he said.

“Feeling’s mutual. So we need to figure out how often,” Gallagher told him. He cocked his head, apparently trying to come up with something.

Mickey snickered, unable to hold back the sound.

“You wanna draw up a schedule for us to bang?” he asked, enjoying the way Gallagher’s face flushed a little.

“Don’t know why that’s funny,” the redhead huffed. “You work during the day; I’m at the club most nights. Unless you want to swing by the place for a quick booty call every night?”

He would’ve pulled a face at the idea of setting foot inside a gay club for any reason if it weren’t for that last bit that snagged his attention.

“Every night, huh, Gallagher?” Mickey drawled, giving the other man a cocky grin. He delighted in the way Gallagher’s face reddened even further.

“Then why don’t you tell me how often you want it,” Gallagher snapped. Turning his back on Mickey, he paced the length of the laundry room in agitation.

The memory of the feel of Gallagher inside him, the warmth of Gallagher’s mouth around his cock, had Mickey being honest. About this much, at least.

“Want it often as I can get it.”

The other man paused, giving Mickey a deeply suspicious look as he apparently tried to decide if he believed Mickey’s words.

“But,” Mickey continued before the Gallagher could make up his mind, “this ain’t gonna be more that what it is. We fuck. End of story. Get mine, get yours, an’ that’s it.”

Gallagher was staring at him intently. Finally, he nodded.

“I can do that.”

“Alright,” Mickey said, oddly relieved. “What nights d’you have off?”

“Wednesdays and Sundays. I start work every night at nine-thirty, except for Saturdays. Then it’s eight.”

Thinking that over, Mickey figured it wouldn’t be too difficult to make this happen. With him leaving work at five thirty every day, and factoring in travel time, that should give them enough of a gap for a quick fuck before they both went about their business. Mickey said as much to Gallagher.

The beginnings of a grin crossed the other man’s face before the expression faltered. Gallagher heaved a deep sigh.

“Where’s all this going to happen?”

Mickey fidgeted at the question. There was no way they were going to fuck in his apartment. It was the only safe haven he had, the only place that was his; hell, he hadn’t even invited Mandy over. Allowing some stranger into what was finally beginning to feel like home was out of the question.

“We could do it at my place,” Gallagher suggested, but Mickey was already shaking his head.

No, that’d be too personal, being in the redhead’s space that way.

Suddenly struck by inspiration, Mickey turned to Gallagher triumphantly.

“Here!” Mickey said, gesturing around the basement. What better place to take his dirty laundry than the laundry room?

The other man didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm.

“You want to fuck down here? In a public part of the building where anyone could walk in?”

“C’mon, Gallagher, half the fucks ‘round here don’t even bathe. How often you think they do their friggin’ laundry? ‘Sides, the door sticks, so we’ll hear anyone tryin’ to get in.”

Gallagher still didn’t seem convinced. His eyes took in the dark space, skipping over the quiet washers and driers before settling on Mickey. All reluctance seemed to drain away, replaced by a speculative look.

“Think you’d be good to go now?”

It was now Mickey’s turn to stare in disbelief. Okay, he hadn’t been expecting that.

He had no idea what to say, and was saved from having to respond by the sound of Gallagher’s phone belting out the beginning strains of _Bad Reputation_.

Brow furrowing, the other man fished his cell out of his pocket, staring at the screen for a moment. He sighed.

“You mind taking a rain cheque?” Gallagher asked as his phone continued to blare.

“Whatever, man.”

Abandoning his sheets on top of one of the washers, the redhead hurried out of the room to take the call.

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walking around his shitty neighbourhood, Mickey found himself trying to see the place from an outsider’s perspective. Granted, it was no one’s idea of paradise, and most of the inhabitants of Chicago’s South Side leapt at the opportunity to get out, but... it was home. There were parts of the neighbourhood where Mickey could remember playing with Mandy when they were kids; corners he and his brothers had parked off on, drinking beer, after they’d snuck out of the house; tiny convenience stores that they’d terrorised.
> 
> Not the most idyllic of childhoods, to be sure, but that was all they’d known.

Ian answered his phone as soon as the laundry room door scraped shut behind him.

“Hey, Carl, what’s up?”

“Can I come over?” his younger brother asked in that deep voice that had taken them all so long to get used to. Ian smiled, remembering how weird it’d been when the boy had started sounding like a man.

“Sure, whenever you want,” he replied.

“I’m here now.”

“Oh. Okay, give me a sec, and I’ll be right up.”

Hurrying up the stairs, Ian got to the fifth floor a few minutes later to find Carl leaning against his apartment door. The kid’s hair was sticking up in places, and he was staring blankly at a spot on the floor.

He looked up when he heard Ian enter the hallway.

“There’s blood on the carpet,” Carl said casually.

“Yeah. Heard it was some guy that got shot,” he responded with a faint grin.

“Cool.” Pushing off the door, Carl waited for Ian to unlock his apartment.

“Wasn’t expecting to see you. Everything alright?” Ian asked as he stepped inside, holding the door open so Carl could follow him in.

“Jimmy showed up, packed all his stuff.” Carl paused for a moment before saying in a slightly subdued voice. “It was weird.”

Wincing in sympathy, Ian tried to imagine how uncomfortable the whole thing must have gotten. Normally family drama and awkwardness didn’t really phase Carl—kid had too much experience with it. That Carl had admitted to it told Ian that the situation had probably been less _weird_ and had bordered on tense.

“You okay?” Ian asked, concerned.

A noncommittal shrug was all he received in response. Wanting to press the issue, but knowing better, Ian shifted the focus to their other siblings.

“Where are Debbie and Liam?”

The young man didn’t respond for a moment, instead crossing the room to flop down onto the couch, dropping his backpack beside him. He was staring at the watermarks in the ceiling as he replied.

“Debbie took Liam with her to Derek’s place.”

“What about Fiona? Did she come home, or call?”

“Texted,” Carl said tiredly. “Said she’d be back in a few days.”

“Yeah, well, this asshole she ran off with could be a goddamn serial killer for all we fucking know, and he’s sending those messages,” Ian muttered, his irritation at his sister flaring up.

Sending Ian an alarmed glance, Carl’s whole body tensed. Belatedly realising that he’d freaked his younger brother out, Ian hurried to put Carl at ease.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he said with a wince. “I was kidding. I’m sure she’s fine, and that this Gus guy’s legit. That was just me being a dick.”

Carl leaned back on the couch, but the concern in his expression was still there. He fiddled with the zipper on his backpack, shifting uneasily on the couch. It wasn’t like Carl to bottle things up like this, not when it came to their family.

“What’s going on?” Ian asked slowly as he came to sit beside the kid. “Carl,” he pushed when his brother stayed quiet, “talk to me.”

“Probably gonna have to move.”

“What? Why? Fuck, is Jimmy kicking you guys out?” Ian didn’t wait for his brother to answer, the anger propelling him out of his seat almost immediately. Pacing restlessly, he didn’t know who he was more pissed at right now: Jimmy for being an asshole, or Fiona for getting herself and their siblings into this mess.

“Nah, don’t think so,” Carl said. “But I don’t think we’re gonna be able to make rent. Not like Fi makes a boatload at the cup place. An’ with Jimmy gone...” Carl’s voice trailed off.

Seeing the resignation in his little brother’s eyes, Ian tried to come up with some way to reassure him.

“Maybe this new guy can help out,” he suggested lamely.

The look Carl gave him told Ian that the kid didn’t believe it.

“You mind if I do my homework here?” he asked, changing the subject.

Ian tried not to let his surprise show through. To say Carl’s interest in school was minimal would be a massive understatement.

“Uh, sure,” he said uncertainly. Then, in case _homework_ was code for something else, possibly illegal, Ian asked, “What are you working on?”

“Gotta read this book by Tuesday,” the kid complained. “Teacher told me I gotta pass this test, or I’m gonna flunk English.” He pulled out a copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird._ “It’s part of the _Hunger Games_ series, right?”

The question almost made Ian cringe.

“Not exactly,” he replied. “But it’s even better. I read it a while ago, but I can give you the overview, if you want.”

“Really?” Carl’s face brightened.

“Sure. And while you’re working, I’ll go through my notes for class. We’ll be something the world’s never seen before: two industrious Gallaghers.”

Grinning over at his brother, Ian began to explain how Harper Lee’s novel had absolutely nothing to do with the _Hunger Games._

_\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

A couple of hours later, Ian looked up from his textbook to find Carl hunched over his own book. The kid’s brow was furrowed in concentration, and he seemed completely immersed in what he was reading. Ian was about to ask Carl if he was hungry when there was a loud banging on the front door.

Ian scowled at the interruption. Gesturing at Carl to carry on with what he was doing, Ian clambered up from where he was sitting on the floor, his legs a little stiff as he crossed the apartment.

He wasn’t expecting to find Mickey standing in the hallway, his arms overflowing with... Ian took a closer look, belatedly realising that Mickey was holding onto his sheets.

_Damn, he’d forgotten about that stuff._

“You left your shit downstairs,” Mickey said shortly. He didn’t wait for Ian to respond, just unceremoniously shoving the crumpled material into Ian’s arms. An instant later his thermos was placed on top of the pile; it appeared to be empty.

“Good coffee, Gallagher,” Mickey told him. The other man then turned on his heel, about to head into his own apartment.

“You want to come in for some more?” Ian called after him before he could stop himself.

“Not really,” Mickey answered before slamming his door shut behind him.

Grinning after the other man, and feeling like a complete idiot, Ian closed his own door more quietly; he turned around to find Carl watching him.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

“Oh, uh, just a neighbour,” Ian said, feeling self-conscious.

“A neighbour who does your laundry?”

“What? No, he didn’t—” Ian dumped the thermos into the sink before taking an experimental whiff of his sheets, expecting them to still smell like cum. Only, they didn’t. Instead, all he got was the scent of detergent, a different brand to the one Ian normally used.

_What the fuck?_ Ian thought, surprised. _Carl was right._

“Why would he do that?” he muttered, more to himself than to his brother.

Feeling Carl’s gaze on him for a moment longer, Ian breathed a sigh of relief when the kid turned his attention back to his book. He used Carl’s distraction to hurry to his bedroom. Carelessly dropping the sheets onto his bed, Ian stared at the wall separating his and Mickey’s bedrooms in bemusement.

He didn’t know why he was making a thing out of this. So Mickey had washed the sheets. It wasn’t a big deal.

_No, but it was... unexpectedly nice._

Ian came out of his room to settle himself back onto the floor with his textbooks, but he was distracted. He’d read the same paragraph at least seven times when he heard a door opening out in the hallway. Acting on instinct, and ignoring Carl’s raised eyebrows, Ian quickly yanked his apartment door open, catching Mickey’s retreating figure just before he entered the stairwell.

“Mick, wait up!”

The other man hesitated a moment before turning to Ian.

“The fuck you want?” Mickey asked impatiently.

“You did my laundry,” Ian said, coming to stand a few feet away from Mickey.

“So?” This time he sounded defensive.

“It was just... neighbourly of you,” Ian said, smirking at Mickey as he squirmed uncomfortably. “Didn’t think that was your thing.”

“First an’ last fuckin’ time for everythin’,” Mickey snapped.

Shoving the stairwell door open, Mickey started down the steps, his footsteps echoing in the quiet space. Curiosity niggling at him, Ian trailed after the other man.

“Where you going?” he asked, ignoring Mickey’s gusty sigh when he realised that Ian was following him.

“Mind your own goddamn business.”

“If you’re going to be taking pictures, maybe you should head over to the Botanic Gardens,” Ian suggested as he spotted the camera bag slung over Mickey’s shoulder. Remembering the one year they’d taken Debbie there for her birthday, he added, “It’s really nice.”

“You want me to take pictures of fuckin’ _flowers_?” Mickey asked scornfully. He threw a disgusted glance at Ian over his shoulder.

“Why not? It’s not like you’re going to find anything better around here.”

For some reason, those words brought Mickey to a halt. His expression unreadable, he stared at Ian for a few seconds.

“You’d be surprised, Gallagher.”

Ian didn’t move for a long moment after Mickey left, turning the other man’s words around over and over inside his mind. It was weird, but Ian felt like he’d just failed some sort of test.

The idea bugging him more than it should, Ian returned to his apartment. He and Carl didn’t talk for a while.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Walking around his shitty neighbourhood, Mickey found himself trying to see the place from an outsider’s perspective. Granted, it was no one’s idea of paradise, and most of the inhabitants of Chicago’s South Side leapt at the opportunity to get out, but... it was home. There were parts of the neighbourhood where Mickey could remember playing with Mandy when they were kids; corners he and his brothers had parked off on, drinking beer, after they’d snuck out of the house; tiny convenience stores that they’d terrorised.

Not the most idyllic of childhoods, to be sure, but that was all they’d known.

In spite of wanting to put Gallagher out of his mind, Mickey wondered what Gallagher’s childhood had been like. Had he grown up around the South Side, and dreamed of bigger and better things? Or had his sister shacking up with that rich guy changed his perspective of life in this shit hole?

His brain occupied, thinking about things he shouldn’t give two shits about, Mickey’s feet took him across town. He found himself standing a few yards away from a row of ramshackle houses. They were nothing out of the ordinary for this part of the neighbourhood. But it was the wall opposite that caught Mickey’s attention.

A colourful mural stretched across the cracked bricks. Memorials for lost community members; a bright yellow peace symbol marred in places by gang insignia; the contrast was startling to someone who hadn’t seen it before. It was one of Mickey’s favourite places to photograph, with new art covering up the old every few weeks.

Mickey didn’t spend too much time there, though. Snapping a couple of pictures, even catching a couple of shots of the residents, he found himself wondering again. Before he realised it, Mickey found himself standing in the middle of a street that was painfully familiar to him.

Shoulders tensing instinctively, Mickey’s eyes were drawn to the house he’d lived in with his father and siblings. He’d somehow managed to forget what the place looked like, had whitewashed the building to make it seem a little more like a home.

Despite the clawing urge he felt to get out of there, Mickey forced himself to stay in place. He’d been dodging Mandy’s calls for the past couple weeks. The calls had dwindled off, replaced by the occasional angry text, until even those had come to a stop. While he and Mandy hadn’t been close since they were children, they’d never had this much distance between them before.

Abruptly, he wanted to see his sister. He wanted to talk to her, to find out if she was okay living in that place with all its ugly memories and only their brothers for company.

Feeling like an ass, Mickey slowly walked over to the house. It took a minute for him to brace himself for Mandy’s reaction; he’d be lucky if she didn’t try to deck him. The idea made him smile.

Quickly knocking on the front door, Mickey took a few steps back; better to have some room to manoeuvre if she really did come out swinging.

“Answer the door!”

Mickey frowned at the sound of the unfamiliar male voice. He hadn’t been gone so long that he wouldn’t recognise the sound of his own brothers’ voices. Before he could think about it too much, the door swung open.

It felt like the air had been knocked out of him.

_Jesus Christ._

Staring at his sister, Mickey didn’t know what to say. Pale skin marred with bruises, she was holding herself gingerly as her eyes widened at the sight of him.

“What’re you doin’ here?” she asked at last, sounding wary.

“Came to see you.” Mickey’s voice shook. Staring at Mandy, his mind flooded with images of Nataliya. The way Mandy was standing, one arm wrapped around her ribs, head ducked slightly so that the bruises were less noticeable; it was like he was looking at his mother all over again.

The silence between them stretched out. He wanted to puke.

“Who is it?” that same loud voice shouted impatiently from inside.

“My brother,” Mandy called back.

Mickey had never been one for words; growing up with Terry had meant that no one in their house had had much use for them, unless they were being used as weapons. Standing there in front of Mandy, he’d never hated that part of their upbringing as much as he did now. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was that he hadn’t protected her; he wanted to rail at her for letting this happen, even though he knew it wasn’t fair; he wanted to grab her hand and drag her away from this fucking house of horrors, get her somewhere safe.

And for all that, he couldn’t force a single word past his lips.

Sending a self-deprecating smile his way, Mandy shut the door, and the skirted past him to lower herself slowly down onto the front steps.

“Got some smokes?” she asked quietly.

The offhand question snapped Mickey out of it a little. Settling beside Mandy, he pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, pulling one out and handing it to her, along with his lighter. They sat there in silence for a few minutes, passing the cigarette back and forth between them.

“You okay?” he forced out.

It was a stupid question, and they both knew it. Still, instead of calling him out on it, Mandy just shrugged.

“I’m alright.”

Mickey stared at his sister incredulously; anger began to burn away the shock of seeing her like this.

“You can come live with me. You’ll be safe there,” he told her, biting back the fury that was slowly seeping through him. Even as he said the words, he began to plan. He’d have to clear his camera equipment out the bedroom that he’d been using as a dark room so Mandy would have space, but that was okay. That stuff could go... somewhere. It took Mickey a few seconds to realise that she hadn’t responded.

“You can’t stay here, Mandy,” he said, his voice harsh. Wincing, Mickey tried to take it back a notch. The only thing helping him hold onto his control was the memories of how Nataliya had responded to the concerns of her family and friends: she’d shut down, and she’d shut them out.

Staring at his sister’s profile, at the sad half smile that flittered across her face, Mickey could tell that his words had missed their mark. He opened his mouth to try again when she cut him off.

“Things aren’t perfect, but...” Mandy’s voice trailed off for a moment. “But at least I know he’ll stay. That he’s not gonna do somethin’ stupid to land in jail, or just pick up an’ leave for somethin’ better.”

Guilt crashed over Mickey at her words. There wasn’t any anger, just a quiet acceptance of how her father and brothers had constantly abandoned her.

“Mandy... Fuck, you deserve—”

“He says he loves me,” she interrupted him. “An’ that’s enough.”

Not knowing how to get through to her, Mickey roughly scrubbed his hands across his face. He could feel useless tears welling up, but he blinked them away. Not like they’d change anything, or make up for him not being there when Mandy had needed him.

“Dad’s parole’s been pushed back for a little while,” Mandy commented after a moment.

“What?” he yelped, whipping round to stare at her. He couldn’t have heard that right.

“Asshole got into a fight with one of the other guys in there. Board’s put his case on the back burner for another couple months.” Mickey’s relief must have been shone through clearly, because Mandy added sourly, “You would’ve known that if you’d answered your fuckin’ phone when I called.”

Mickey flinched. He wondered how many times his sister had tried to call him, and he hadn’t bothered to pick up. The probable answer to that made him queasy.

Sitting there on the front steps of his childhood home, Mickey resolved that the next time his phone rang, and his sister’s number came up, he’d move heaven and fucking earth to be there for her.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That heavily accented voice shook Mickey out of his brooding. Glancing at Svetlana, his face automatically creased into a scowl. The woman had started working at the studio the week after the wedding, and she’d been pissing him off ever since. It wasn’t so much that she was abrasive, which Mickey could’ve dealt with; it was the knowing looks she kept sending in his direction, like she knew something she shouldn’t.

Three years after what had happened with Adam, Terry had been arrested. He’d been involved in a bank robbery and the assault of a teller, and the cops had come down on him hard. They’d burst into the Milkovich house one night, and dragged a kicking and screaming Terry out of it, shoving him roughly into a cruiser.

Mickey had watched in silence. For hours afterwards, he’d been numb. But slowly, the reality started to sink in: his father wasn’t coming home.

The most intense relief he’d ever felt was quickly followed up by nausea. His stomach rebelled, and Mickey had found himself puking into the kitchen sink.

“Hey, you okay?” Mandy had asked him. He’d felt the weight of her hand on his shoulder, breathed in the faint scent of her perfume; it was the same one Nataliya used to wear.

“Fine,” Mickey answered hoarsely. Hating this weakness, even though he knew his sister wouldn’t hurt him, Mickey shrugged off her touch. Disgust curdled his stomach even further as he contemplated washing out the mess he’d made in the sink; the smell was almost enough to have him heaving again.

“That why you’re pukin’ your guts out in here?” Mandy shot back. She wrinkled her nose in the direction of the sink. “Least there isn’t much to clean up, what with your steady diet of beer, an’ not much else.”

“Not my fuckin’ mother,” he snapped back.

“No, but I’m pretty sure I’m the only person in this goddamn house that gives a shit if you live, or die.”

Mickey shifted uncomfortably at her words. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe her, or that he didn’t reciprocate; he just didn’t want to talk about it, especially with the sour taste of vomit fresh in his mouth.

She left his side, returning a moment later with a bottle of bleach and a bucket of water. Mickey’s lips quirked up in a bitter smile. Ask the Milkovich kids if they had food or hot water, and more often than not, the answer would be no. But if you needed guns, or any of the odds and ends needed to clean up a crime scene, and they were the people you wanted to talk to.

Fighting past the urge just to leave everything as it was, Mickey mixed the bleach in with the water, and began scrubbing at the sink. The chemicals burned his skin a little, but he ignored it.

“You want somethin’?” he asked when he realised that Mandy was still watching him intently.

“He’s not comin’ back, y’know.”

Movements coming to a halt, Mickey turned to face his sister. She was picking at a hole in her shirt, even as she defiantly met his stare.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “Mandy, tell me you fuckin’ didn’t.”

“Why the hell not? After what that cunt did to you? To me?” Her voice broke at the end, and Mickey felt the unfamiliar urge to pull her into a hug. Instead, his arms hung limply at his sides, fists clenching.

“But... For fuck’s sake, callin’ the cops? Mandy...” Mickey’s voice trailed off as he struggled to comprehend what she’d done. Terror seized his chest as he thought about how Terry would react if he ever got out of prison.

“If he finds out, he’s... Mandy, he’ll kill you.”

“Maybe. But not before someone makes him their bitch. Way I figure it, it’s an even trade.”

Staring after her as she left the kitchen, Mickey felt like he was drowning. The relief of their father being gone was eclipsed by a sense of foreboding.

Exhausted—wanting nothing more than to just get the fuck out of this goddamn house—Mickey turned back to the sink, and started scrubbing again.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thoughts of his sister had plagued Mickey for the last couple of weeks. Guilt and worry intertwined to form a potent mixture; there was a pit of dread in his stomach, and the nightmares were coming more often.

_Jesus, he was tired._

“This is how you spend day? Sit and stare into space?”

That heavily accented voice shook Mickey out of his brooding. Glancing at Svetlana, his face automatically creased into a scowl. The woman had started working at the studio the week after the wedding, and she’d been pissing him off ever since. It wasn’t so much that she was abrasive, which Mickey could’ve dealt with; it was the knowing looks she kept sending in his direction, like she knew something she shouldn’t.

“Bitch, you only been here for five fuckin’ minutes. Get off my dick.”

“Why? You like someone else on your dick? Maybe with chest hair?” Svetlana asked, eyebrows raised.

Mickey felt himself pale, but before he could even try to think of a response, the bell above the shop’s door chimed cheerfully.

“Hey, you guys,” Red greeted them. She seemed to like working here a lot better now that Alfred had hired Svetlana. “What’s going on?”

“Nothin’,” Mickey snapped.

Red sent him a dirty look, which he ignored. Shoving out of his chair, Mickey headed over to the other side of the store. Mechanically, he reached out to rearrange a display of picture frames.

Ever since the wedding, and his realisation that Red was Gallagher’s sister, Mickey had found himself floundering on how to treat the young woman. She was still kind of bossy, and she still got on his nerves a little bit. But now Mickey was screwing around with her brother. What was the protocol? Did he have to be nice to her, or did he treat her the same as he always had? Did she bitch about him to Ian, and did that hurt Mickey’s chances of getting laid?

The uncertainty was making him edgy, which had had the effect of making their relationship even more adversarial.

It was quiet for the rest of the day, with only the occasional customer wondering into the studio. Svetlana and Red spent most of the day twittering, and Mickey did his best to ignore their voices. He kept worrying about Mandy. They’d talked on the phone the day before, and he’d tried to convince her to move in with him. Again. After about ten minutes of arguing, Mandy had hung up on him, and wouldn’t pick up when he tried calling her back.

“Fuck it,” he muttered. It was just after twelve thirty. She should be on her lunch break by now. He stepped out of the studio to make the call.

Phone ringing for what felt like a long time, Mickey was about to give up when his sister answered.

“H-hello?” Her voice was hushed and shaky.

Mickey remembered that tone.

“You okay? Where are you?” he demanded, suddenly frantic.

“Don’t worry, Jackie. Just a case of food poisoning,” she said.

“Is he there?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Did he hurt you?”

A long pause before Mandy answered.

“I’ll talk to you later.”

There was a click in his ear, and Mickey felt panic welling up inside him. Struggling to stay calm, he didn’t move for a few minutes.

“Are you okay?” Red asked when he came back into the studio.

“Fine,” Mickey replied automatically. He schooled his expression into impassivity, and tried to ignore the way it felt like his skin was crawling. He wanted to go to her so badly, but knew he might just make shit worse for her.

_Mandy was gonna be okay_ , he told himself.

_She had to be._

_\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Ian just wanted to get the hell out of here. Maybe he wasn’t being fair, but he really didn’t want to see Fiona right now. She’d bailed on her own wedding without a word, left them to deal with the fallout, and rounded things off by getting married to the guy from the goddamn wedding band.

_God, he was mad at her._

He, Debbie, Carl, and Lip were seated around the kitchen table in the house Fiona used to share with Jimmy. They were waiting for the new guy to arrive, and everyone was on edge.

“Sorry ‘bout this,” Fiona chattered nervously. “He’s got rehearsal, an’ then he’s gotta take the guys back to their apartments. He’ll be here any minute.”

“They practicin’ for another wedding?” Lip asked snidely.

“Fuck you, Lip!” Fiona immediately flared up. “That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair,” Lip snapped, “is us havin’ to explain to _your_ fiancé that you’d taken off with a guy you barely knew.”

The air in the kitchen was thick with tension. Liam looked between his older siblings anxiously. Poor kid had been acting clingy ever since the wedding, playing up now that Jimmy wasn’t around.

“Liam, don’t you have some homework to do?” Ian asked before Fiona or Lip could carry on squabbling.

Not waiting for approval, Liam left the table without answering, and hurried out of the room. Fiona stared after him.

“You didn’t... I want him to meet Gus.”

“Oh, yeah, we’re all real excited to meet him,” Lip retorted. “’Specially since you like him enough to marry him after barely two weeks of knowing him. He must really be somethin’. Hell, maybe he can get me to put out.”

Instead of getting angry, Fiona seemed to deflate a little. She looked around the kitchen, as though searching for the words to make them understand her decision. Finally, she shook her head.

“I can’t... I can’t explain it,” she whispered. “When we met, there was somethin’ there that I’d never felt for Jimmy. I couldn’t go through with it. An’ Gus, he was, like, maybe we should get married. So I thought, y’know, why not?”

Heaving a sigh, Ian looked away, already anticipating Lip’s reaction. But before his brother could explode, they were interrupted by the sound of the front door being opened. They all glanced at each other as Fiona hurried to greet whoever it was.

“This is bullshit,” Lip snarled.

“We should give him a chance,” Carl said unexpectedly.

The surprise had Lip hesitating for about two seconds.

“Carl, look—” Lip began once he’d recovered.

“Fi wants us to do it,” Carl said, cutting him off. “She’s got enough to deal with, with Candace callin’ every five fuckin’ minutes to yell at her. So just... shut the fuck up.”

Those words caused Lip’s mouth to drop open, kind of the opposite of what Carl had asked for; still, it meant that Lip wasn’t talking. Ian couldn’t blame his brother for being taken aback, though. Carl never talked to any of them like that.

“Hey, guys. It’s, uh, nice to see you all again.”

They all turned to the entrance of the kitchen. Standing there was a tall man, with dark hair and a beard. He looked nervous. Ian was sort of surprised to see him. He knew Lip had described the guy before, but he’d still been expecting to see the smarmy lead singer; that guy had spent most of his time leering at Fiona.

Okay, maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

_Who was he kidding? This was going to be awful._

“S’up, man.” Carl was the first to speak. He gave the rest of them a meaningful look.

“Uh, hey,” Ian said, taking the hint. Debbie gave a hesitant smile, while Lip muttered a begrudging, “Hi.”

“So, this is a little awkward,” Gus said, pulling a face. “I just... I want you to know I’m sorry for how things went down. I can’t imagine how uncomfortable you all must’ve been.” Fiona came to stand beside him, and he put his arm around her. Something about the way they looked at each other that loosened the knot of anger in Ian’s chest slightly.

Lip was unmoved. He scoffed.

“Dunno why we’re doin’ this. She might ditch you in a couple weeks for the guy that worked at the florist.”

Rolling his eyes, Ian aimed a kick at Lip’s leg under the table.

“Shut up,” he snapped. Fiona’s face had paled, and Carl looked ready to reach across the table to get at Lip.

_Thank God for Debbie._

“Hey, Gus. Do you like lasagne? Fiona makes the best lasagne ever,” she said in a bright voice.

Gus looked relieved.

“I love lasagne,” he said. He pressed a kiss to Fiona’s temple before moving to take a seat next to Carl.

“Okay, um...” Fiona tried to collect herself. “Someone go get Liam while I dish up.”

The sound of a chair scraping back across the floor, and then Lip was stalking out of the kitchen. Debbie’s too bright voice broke the silence before it could get heavy.

“So, Gus. What kind of music does your band play?”

_It was going to be a long night._


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slowly, Mickey opened his eyes a fraction. It was mostly dark in the room, with just a thin stream of sunshine coming through the curtains. There was just enough light for Mickey to realise that this wasn’t his apartment.

“You okay?”

Mickey paused in the middle of doing up his pants. He gave Ian a confused look, eyebrows shooting up.

“The hell you talkin’ ‘bout?”

“I don’t know.” Ian shrugged. “You just seem kind of distracted.”

“I’m fine,” Mickey answered dismissively.

They were in the laundry room, having just finished up a rough and sweaty fuck session, and Ian’s legs felt like jelly. And while Mickey had seemed to enjoy it too—he’d reached back to dig his nails into Ian’s thigh, and he’d come with a ragged groan—he hadn’t seemed as... involved.

It pricked Ian’s pride that Mickey could distance himself all the time. When they were having sex, while they were talking, he was always holding back.

Watching Mickey as he pulled on his shoes, Ian had to concede that their whole relationship was weird. While they were down here, they fucked, and it was great. But any conversation beyond, “You like that?”, “Harder!”, and “I’m gonna come!” was out. Which was sort of okay. Ian wasn’t an idiot; he knew how the fuck buddy system was supposed to work.

But then Mickey kept blurring the freaking lines. Because late at night, when they were both in bed, Mickey would talk to him through the too-thin dry walling that was all that separated them. And while Ian enjoyed their conversations, he didn’t understand why Mickey wouldn’t just come over so they could talk in bed like _normal people._

“Later,” Mickey said, once his clothes were finally on straight. Aside from his slightly flushed cheeks, no one would’ve guessed what he’d been doing; he appeared unaffected by what’d just happened.

_Okay, fuck that_ , Ian decided.

He stepped in front of Mickey, blocking his path to the door. Ian hadn’t finished dressing, and he felt kind of stupid standing there in only one shoe, and with a couple of his shirt buttons undone. But they were going to have a conversation right now, goddamn it.

“Talk to me,” he said, ignoring Mickey’s scowl.

“I am talkin’ to you, Gallagher. That’s what it’s called when I open my mouth, an’ words come out. Now, get outta the way.”

Trying to sidestep him, Mickey made a little growling sound when Ian wouldn’t let him passed.

“Why are you being a baby about this? You’re probably going to end up telling me in a couple hours anyway.”

“How you figure that?” Mickey asked. Arms folded across his chest, he gave Ian an expectant look.

Now, Ian hesitated. Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed this so hard. But damn it, he was sick of Mickey’s constant vigilance spiel; it was beginning to chafe.

“We both know,” Ian began, throwing caution to the wind, “that I’m going to get home from the club, you’re going to wake up, and then we’re going to end up talking. And then you’re going to tell me about whatever it is that’s on your mind. It’s like some kind of... bizarre pillow talk.”

“Y’know what? How ‘bout we skip the _bizarre pillow talk_ from now on, huh? An’ the reason I wake up, _asshole_ , is ‘cause your headboard is still right up against the fuckin’ wall. Every time you swan dive onto the goddamn thing, it makes a fuckin’ noise.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Ian ran his hands through his hair, his exasperation making him tug on it a little. “I’m trying to be your friend, Mick!”

Giving up, Ian got out of Mickey’s way. He turned his back on the other man as he got dressed, expecting to hear the door to the laundry room scraping open. Instead, there was silence.

“My sister’s boyfriend hits her.”

Ian froze for a moment. Turning around slowly, he stared at Mickey. Gone was the bluster and the attitude. For only the second time since Ian had known him, Mickey looked vulnerable. And like the last time he’d seen Mickey like this, Ian had no idea what to say.

“Is she okay?” he asked finally. He winced almost as soon as the words were out his mouth; God, that was a stupid fucking question.

But Mickey didn’t look angry.

“I-I dunno. She won’t leave. I told her she could stay with me, but...” He threw his hands up, misery etched into his expression.

Acting on instinct, Ian moved toward him, aching to pull him into a hug to offer some comfort; he tried to ignore the prick of hurt he felt when Mickey took a hasty step backward.

“Not going to hurt you, Mick,” he said quietly.

He was sort of hoping for more of that Milkovich bravado that he’d gotten so used to. At least that way he’d know that Mickey was okay. Anything was better than the helpless look on the other man’s face.

“I gotta go,” Mickey said instead.

Not looking back, he wrenched the basement door open, leaving Ian alone to pull on the last of his clothes.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey couldn’t sleep. There was too much rushing through his head: images of Mandy’s bruised face; his mother’s smiling mouth marred by a split lip; Adam curled up on the ground, and hurting.

For a while, he’d tried working in the darkroom, but he’d quickly given up on that. He couldn’t concentrate, and with the mood he was in, he’d probably end up wrecking his pictures. So he’d gone out drinking. Only that hadn’t helped. He’d stumbled home, but he was still too restless to sleep.

Finally, _fucking finally_ , Mickey heard something that made him pause.

The sound of movement from next door had him moving again. Not stopping to think, Mickey banged his way out of his apartment, and into the hallway. He knocked loudly on his neighbour’s door.

A bat-wielding redhead greeted him a few minutes later. Mickey blinked at Gallagher in bemusement.

“You gonna hit me with that?” he asked.

Mickey was kind of wasted, so he might have been off in reading facial expressions, but Ian looked tempted to do just that. Not waiting for a response, he shouldered his way in passed Gallagher, and into the apartment.

“Jesus, Mickey. It’s three in the morning. What are you doing here?”

Gallagher sounded pissed. Well, good. Because, suddenly, Mickey was too.

“I wanna know what the fuck’s your problem.”

“What’s my problem? Are you serious right now?” Ian’s mouth was hanging open, but at least he’d put the bat down.

_It was a nice mouth_ , Mickey couldn’t help but notice.

_No, damn it. Focus._

“You-you act like some kinda fuckin’ Disney prince. Wanna give me a hug, like you think I’m a fuckin’ pussy.” Mickey could feel himself getting angrier, and he didn’t know why.

“Mick, you’re drunk,” Gallagher said quietly.

“Don’t fuckin’ talk down to me.” He wished he could just stop speaking, but the words kept tumbling out. “You think I need you to save me, or some shit, huh? You’re nothin’ but a warm mouth to me.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ian couldn’t help it; he flinched.

Staring at Mickey, he wondered if this was some kind of cosmic retribution. Fuck knew he’d treated his past hook-ups pretty badly; hell, for the most part, their faces had started to blur together after a while.

He felt an immediate surge of guilt, because this hurt more than he’d thought it would.

“You’re drunk,” Ian said again. “You should sleep it off.”

“That’s it?” Disbelief coated Mickey’s words.

It took a second for Ian to understand what was happening: Mickey was looking for a fight. But Ian wasn’t in the mood to give him one.

“That’s it.”

Neither of them said anything for a long time. Suddenly, all the anger seemed to drain out of Mickey. His shoulders drooped, and he swayed a little on his feet.

“I’m sorry,” Mickey mumbled. Legs unsteady, he tried to leave the apartment. He lurched forward, almost crashing over the couch, and Ian sighed tiredly.

_God, Mickey was a pain in the ass._

“Thought this part of my life was over,” he muttered as he headed over to Mickey. The last drunk he’d had to haul around like this had been Frank. Taking hold of Mickey’s arm, he draped it over his shoulder to keep the other man from landing on his face.

“You better not make a habit of this,” he warned Mickey once they entered the hallway. Mickey’s unintelligible muttering was all the response he got.

Heaving another deep sigh—he’d been doing that a lot tonight—Ian reached the door to Mickey’s apartment. Trying to balance Mickey with his one arm, while he reached out with the other, Ian jiggled the handle.

It was locked.

“Mick, keys,” he said.

“What?”

“The keys,” Ian said slowly. “For your apartment. Where you live.”

Brow furrowed in confusion, Mickey pulled away from Ian slightly to fumble in his pockets.

“Don’t think I got ‘em,” he said finally.

Ian closed his eyes, and tried to do the deep breathing thing; he didn’t think it was working. Because, standing there with his arm around the other man’s waist, Ian was sorely tempted to just leave Mickey out in the goddamn hallway. Once he was feeling slightly calmer, Ian opened his eyes again.

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” he informed Mickey as they backtracked towards his apartment.

“I know.”

And didn’t that make Ian feel like an ass. Rolling his eyes that he was feeling guilty after what Mickey had said to him, Ian gently steered the other man into his apartment.

“Alright, let’s get you to bed.”

“Door’s locked,” Mickey pointed out.

“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry about it.”

They made it to Ian’s bedroom without incident, and as soon as Mickey reached the foot of the bed, he collapsed onto it. The loud _thunk_ of the headboard echoed in the quiet room.

It took a while for Ian to get Mickey settled. He had to roll the other man around some to pull the covers up, and he almost landed on his ass trying to get Mickey’s shoes off. Finally, though, he got Mickey into what looked like a halfway comfortable position.

Standing at the edge of the bed, Ian took a moment to catch his breath. As he stared down at a sleeping Mickey, he felt something inside of him sort of... shift. And with that shift came an unsettling realisation.

He really didn’t mind how much trouble Mickey was.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey was having the strangest dream. He was sitting in a crowded room, but he couldn’t see anyone’s faces; he felt like he couldn’t move. At the front of the room was a stage. Finally, he recognised someone. It was Svetlana, and she started doing that weird squat dance that Russian dudes did sometimes. But the worst part was that with every stomp of Svetlana’s feet, there was an accompanying throb in Mickey’s head.

A helpless groan tore itself free from Mickey’s throat.

Slowly, Mickey opened his eyes a fraction. It was mostly dark in the room, with just a thin stream of sunshine coming through the curtains. There was just enough light for Mickey to realise that this wasn’t his apartment.

_What the...?_

Abruptly, the memory of last night came back to him. He groaned again, more loudly this time. Then he kind of wished he hadn’t as the noise reverberated through his head.

“That bad, huh?” Gallagher asked in an obnoxiously loud voice.

“Jesus, would you keep it down?”

Gallagher gave a little huff of laughter as he moved around the room. The mattress dipped as he climbed onto the bed beside Mickey. Too hungover to freak out at being in bed with the other man, Mickey just lay there.

“You still alive?” Gallagher poked him with one of those long, bony fingers.

“Do that ‘gain, an’ I’ll kick your ass,” Mickey growled, his voice slightly muffled by the pillow.

“Yeah, you’re fine,” Ian muttered. He got off the bed, treating the thing like a goddamn bouncy castle, before he added, “I left you some asprin. If you can drag your sorry ass out of bed, I’ll even make you some breakfast.”

The thought of food made Mickey queasy, and he burrowed more deeply into the blankets. _They smelled nice_ , a distant part of him realised.

He didn’t know how long he lay there for. After a while, though, he couldn’t ignore his straining bladder. Slowly swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Mickey spotted the little white pill and a glass of water on the bedside table.

Not wanting to chance drinking anything right then, Mickey took the pill dry, and then stumbled into the bathroom.

Finally, once the ache in his head tamped down to a dull throbbing, Mickey felt sort of human again. He found Ian sitting in the living room with his back against the couch. Textbooks and sheets of paper surrounded him. Ian didn’t look up from what he was doing.

“Used your toothbrush,” Mickey said, breaking the silence.

Gallagher slowly looked up at him, a pained expression on his face.

“Great,” he said, insincerity practically dripping from the word.

“You got coffee?” Mickey asked, ignoring the sarcasm.

“Kitchen,” he muttered.

Coming back with a mug in his hands, Mickey took a seat on the couch behind Gallagher. He took a slow sip of the coffee as his eyes lingered over the light dusting of freckles across the back of the other man’s neck.

Mickey wanted to touch him.

He carefully set his coffee aside, and then moved to sit next to Gallagher on the floor. That earned him a questioning look. Mickey cleared his throat uncomfortably before speaking.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, not meeting Gallagher’s stare.

“What for?”

Okay, Gallagher wasn’t going to make this easy for him.

Shifting aside some of the redhead’s papers, Mickey moved a little closer, hesitantly reaching out to put his hand on Ian’s knee. It was one of the few times he’d touched Ian outside of a sexual situation; he felt the other man’s leg tense beneath his fingers.

“You’re not... just a warm mouth to me.” Gathering himself, he looked up to check Ian’s expression. He didn’t look angry, but beyond that Mickey had no idea what he could be thinking.

Before he could pussy out, Mickey leaned forward to brush his lips against Ian’s mouth. The kiss was brief, and Mickey pulled back slightly to gauge Ian’s reaction.

Ian’s lips were parted, and his eyes were wide with surprise. He didn’t say anything for a few seconds.

That was enough time for Mickey to start panicking. But before he could stutter out some half-assed apology and get the fuck out of there, Ian was cupping his jaw, and was kissing him back. Ian’s lips were soft, and he tasted like coffee; his fingers were caressing Mickey’s cheekbones softly.

The way they were seated was awkward; Ian twisted to face him, breaking the kiss. Once they were facing each other, though, Ian made no move to pick up where they’d left off. His hands were still gentle against Mickey’s face, and he suddenly smiled.

Leaning forward, Ian whispered against Mickey’s lips, “I’m really glad you brushed your teeth.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in months, Ian moved through his apartment mindful of the man living next door. He hastily showered and dressed, making as little noise as possible. Then, when it came time to climb into bed, he moved gingerly onto the mattress, being sure not to let the headboard bang into the wall.

Ian was in a good mood. Actually, if he were being honest, that was kind of an understatement.

_He was downright fucking giddy._

“God, you make me sick,” Andrew groaned at him a few weeks later.

“Hmmm?” Ian looked up at his friend with a smile.

“You’re all... mushy,” Andrew accused him. “Walking on sunshine, and shit. It’s creeping me out.”

Trying to fix his face into a more serious expression, Ian didn’t last longer than a few seconds before he started grinning again. He couldn’t help it; he was just in such a good mood.

He’d finally managed to convince Mickey to abandon the basement in favour of his apartment, and on the nights when Ian didn’t have work, Mickey even slept over. They talked, and they watched bad tv, and they made out. It wasn’t much, but Ian was just... God, he was so _happy._

“Is it serious?” Andrew asked as they boarded the L.

Ian paused to think about it. He wasn’t really sure how to define their relationship. It wasn’t like they’d talked about it, mostly because he figured Mickey would bolt if Ian tried to bring it up.

“We’re not... not serious,” Ian answered slowly.

“Okay, what does that mean?” Andrew was watching him closely, and Ian couldn’t figure out why.

Fidgeting in his seat, Ian cast about for a way to explain. It was weird, but he didn’t really want to share all the details of what was happening between him and Mickey. It was... private.

“We hang out,” he said at last. “And I like him. A lot.”

“Do you go out on dates?”

_What the hell was going on?_ Ian thought. It wasn’t like Andrew to press so hard.

“You want to tell me how this is any of your business?” Ian asked bluntly. “I mean, I know we’re friends, but you’re being kind of pushy.”

For a few seconds, Andrew didn’t say anything; he wouldn’t even look at Ian. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy.

“You remember that guy I was seeing a while back? Jake, the one who turned out to be dating my cousin?”

“Yeah,” Ian replied. “What about him?”

“Well, he wasn’t a once-off. Before I found out he was seeing Chantelle, we hung out, too. And I liked him. Thought he liked me back. Until one Sunday when he came over for family dinner on my cousin’s arm, and acted like he didn’t know me.”

Ian winced. He could only imagine how humiliating that must’ve been. Casting a surreptitious glance around him, he placed a comforting hand on Andrew’s arm.

“I’m sorry,” Ian said, giving him a squeeze.

“Not looking for a pity party,” Andrew answered shortly. He shrugged off Ian’s touch, straightening in his seat. “I’m just saying, be careful. He’s got his reasons for being on the down low, and that’s fine. But you need to look out for yourself, too.”

The walk home seemed to take no time at all. After he and Andrew had gone their separate ways, Ian found himself thinking about what his friend had said. He couldn’t imagine how much it would hurt if he had to see Mickey with someone else, never mind the added embarrassment of being treated like a stranger.

_But Mickey wasn’t like that_ , Ian tried to tell himself. _Mickey would never treat him like some kind of dirty secret._

Except...

Well, Andrew’s earlier question had raised an important point. They hadn’t been on a proper date. Hell, Ian hadn’t even been invited into Mickey’s apartment. He knew nothing about Mickey’s family beyond the fact that he had a sister he clearly worried about. But that was it.

Maybe Ian didn’t know Mickey as well as he thought he did.

Pausing at his front door, Ian cast a glance at 506. He felt the crazy impulse to bang on Mickey’s door, and demand to be let in, to beg Mickey to open up. Instead, he took a deep breath, and quietly stepped into his apartment.

For the first time in months, Ian moved through his apartment mindful of the man living next door. He hastily showered and dressed, making as little noise as possible. Then, when it came time to climb into bed, he moved gingerly onto the mattress, being sure not to let the headboard bang into the wall.

The whole time he’d been busy, Ian had been straining his ears for some sound from next door. He was disappointed to find that there was nothing.

Only silence.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was just before midday when Ian finally cracked his eyes open. He’d woken up miserable after a restless night; he’d missed the sound of Mickey’s sleep roughened voice asking how work had been, his grouchy commentary on Ian’s stories somehow comforting.

Automatically reaching for his phone, Ian found that he had two texts, both of them from Mickey.

**Didnt hear u come home last night**

The next message was shorter, almost terse, and sent five minutes after the first.

            **Missed u**

Some of the tension from last night dissipated as Ian stared at those two words. Mickey cared; he couldn’t fake that.

The relief that realisation brought was immense. Mickey _did_ care about him. But with that certainty came resolve.

Ian wanted more form him.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If Mickey had to look at one more little homecoming princess, he was going to commit a felony. Summer was coming to an end, and school would be starting up again soon. And the beginning of the new school year meant that every North Side girl with her eyes set on some sparkly tiara was already making plans for the big event. Alfred and Mickey had bookings coming out of their asses.

“Look at this!” Alfred said gleefully as the latest pretty brunette left the studio with her mother. “We’re almost fully booked. I might actually have to hire someone else!”

“Whoopee,” Mickey groused.

His words did nothing to dampen Alfred’s enthusiasm.

“I’m going to buy lunch,” his boss announced, satisfaction wafting off him. “Indian sound okay to you?”

“Sure, man. Whatever.”

“And what about Svetlana and Debbie? What do you think they’ll want?”

“Oh, c’mon, how the fuck should I know?” Mickey asked in exasperation.

“Right, good point. I’ll just get a little of everything. That should cover it.”

Left alone in the studio, with Alfred’s instructions to, “Be nice to my costumers,” Mickey parked himself down on the chair behind the counter.

If he were being honest with himself, something Mickey did as seldom as possible, he’d concede that it wasn’t the pampered princesses coming into the studio who were working on his nerves. At least, not entirely.

He hadn’t talked to Ian in over twelve hours.

God, he hated how needy that thought made him feel. But... he’d gotten used to Ian’s presence, even if it came through the thin wall that separated their apartments. Listening to Ian’s voice, hearing his laughter... Fuck, Mickey didn’t know when it’d happened, but he needed it now.

The thought was fucking terrifying, and came with a whole bunch of other shit he didn’t want to deal with. Disgust at himself that he could let someone control him that way; uncertainty that maybe Ian didn’t feel the same way; a heightening of the ever-present paranoia that Terry would somehow find out.

Guilt.

Because even when things had been at their best with Adam, Mickey had never needed him; not like this.

The sound of the bell above the studio door shook Mickey out of his brooding. Looking up automatically, he froze when he saw who it was. A smile broke out across his face before he could stop it.

“Hey, Mick,” Ian said casually, like he dropped by Mickey’s place of work every day.

“What you doin’ here?” Mickey asked He was so glad to see the redhead, especially after last night when they hadn’t spoken at all, but... what if someone saw them together?

“I wanted to know if you had plans for tonight.” Ian ambled across the studio, completely at ease, before coming to a halt in front of where Mickey was sitting. Leaning his elbows on the counter, he gave Mickey an expectant look.

“Uh, I dunno...” Mickey hedged. “Why?”

“I was thinking maybe we could go out for dinner, or something. You know, like on a real date.”

Mickey frowned. Beyond his instinctual reluctance to do anything even remotely date-like in public with another man, there was a flicker of confusion. _A real date?_

He’d sort of figured that that was what they’d been doing.

Sure, they hadn’t done the whole wining and dining thing, but Mickey had never voluntarily spent that much time with another person before. Even when they weren’t fucking, there was nowhere else Mickey would rather be.

Apparently that wasn’t enough.

“Mick, you realise that we’ve never actually left the apartment building together, right?” Ian said when Mickey took too long to respond.

“There’s a reason for that,” he said quietly.

“Yeah, your dad would be pissed if he found out.” Ian gave an impatient roll of his eyes. “But, seriously, what’s the worst he could do?” Before Mickey could reply, Ian barrelled on, “You haven’t even let me see your apartment; you don’t tell me anything about your family; I’ve never even seen any of the pictures you’ve taken.”

Those words were followed by a long silence. Mickey felt a spike of panic that he quickly masked with anger.

“You could’ve told me this any time in the last couple weeks,” he pointed out. “But instead, you decide ambush me ‘bout this shit while I’m at work?”

“Because every time I want to bring it up, you distract me. When we’re together, it doesn’t seem so bad. I really like you, Mick. More than I should. But I just... I need more than what you’re giving me right now.”

Before anything more could be said, Debbie and Svetlana walked into the studio. That stupid fucking bell their only warning, Mickey forced himself into a more relaxed stance. He quickly glanced away from Ian’s frustrated expression.

“Ian!” Debbie said, sounding excited. “What are you doing here?”

Forcing a smile, Ian turned to his sister. Mickey hated how easy it was for him to act casual; he felt like his whole body was stiff and awkward, while Ian seemed loose and relaxed.

“Came round to see if you wanted to go out for lunch,” Ian replied. He wrapped an arm around Debbie’s shoulders, in the process turning his back on Mickey.

“I don’t know if I can.” Debbie’s excitement faded.

“It’s fine,” Mickey interrupted. “Mood Alfred’s in, he’d let you get away with takin’ money outta the register.”

And still Debbie hesitated.

_No fuckin’ trust_ , Mickey thought irritably.

“Look, go to lunch with your brother, an’ then I’ll leave early, okay? You can cover for me.”

Apparently comfortable with the concept of quid-pro-quo, Debbie nodded her agreement. She dragged Ian out of the studio with her, and Ian went along without a backward glance.

Mickey tried to ignore the hurt that settled in his chest.

“Is Orange Boy your boyfriend now?” Svetlana asked.

The question made Mickey jump. Shit, he’d forgotten she was standing there.

“Dunno what the fuck you’re talkin’ ‘bout,” he muttered defensively.

“You do not have to lie,” she told him. “I see you two together at Lishman house.”

“What?” Mickey asked sharply. He quickly spun around to stare at the Russian woman. She gave him an unperturbed look, apparently not understanding why he was getting so worked up.

“How-how did you...?”

“I see Orange Boy go in, I see you come out later, face all red.” A careless shrug that had Mickey gaping at her. “I put two and two together.”

“You know? Did you tell anybody?” he asked with sudden urgency. “Fuck, did you—”

“What is there to tell?” Svetlana asked. “You like boys. So what?”

Mickey didn’t know how to respond to her nonchalant attitude. It was all... weirdly anticlimactic. They worked in silence for a few minutes, rearranging displays, and tidying up around the studio.

“The hell you doin’ in the house anyway?” he asked after a while.

“Same as you. Looking for... what is this word? Compensation for wasted time, yes?”

“You were swipin’ shit from the house?” Mickey was impressed despite himself. He paused. “You get anythin’ good?”

“Rich people have many fancy things they do not miss. And diapers are expensive.”

_Svetlana had a kid?_

“Yeah, way I hear it, that shit costs a fortune,” he said instead of asking.

“It is worth it, most days,” she answered with a smile.

And there Mickey was. Having a conversation with a woman who’d been nothing but a pain in his ass for the last month.

_It was fuckin’ weird._

_\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Stepping out of the studio a few hours later, Mickey pulled out his phone. Ian hadn’t come back with his sister after their lunch, and Mickey hadn’t had the privacy he’d needed to call earlier. Now, he was waited until he was on the L before dialling Ian’s number.

“What?” Ian answered tersely.

Mickey winced. Released a tired sigh.

“Look I know you’re mad—”

“You think?”

“—but how ‘bout a compromise?”

There was a brief pause, as Ian seemed to think about it.

“What kind of compromise?” he asked grudgingly.

“You come over to my place. Gimme a couple hours to clean up. I’ll even make you dinner, if you want.”

“Wow, you’re really going to let me in your apartment? For real?”

“Don’t be an ass,” Mickey said quietly. “You wanna come over, or not?”

“Yeah.” Ian’s tone was more subdued now. “Yeah, I’d like to come over.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, Ian was less interested in the car chases and shootouts. He was watching Mickey from out of the corner of his eye, and cautiously inching closer to him. Every time Mickey would glance in his direction, Ian would pretend to be watching the movie. It was dumb, he knew, but he got a little kick out of the game they were playing, where Mickey tried to catch him staring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I dedicate this to Christina because I missed her birthday (it was in friggin' February!) So, Christina, this is my favourite chapter, and you're among my favourite people in the history of the world, so it fits. Hope you enjoy it!

Mickey was nervous. He was pacing anxiously up and down his apartment, waiting for Ian to arrive. For the past few hours, Mickey had done his best to clean up, throwing away old takeout containers, folding clothes and washing dishes. Hell, he’d even bought some fucking air freshener on his way home.

Now, all he could do was wait. Although, how fucking long could it take Ian to get from his apartment to Mickey’s?

The thought had barely crossed his mind before he heard a knock. Mickey froze.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Taking a deep breath, he hurried over to open the door. Then he hesitated again.

For the first time, Mickey was going to let someone into his safe place. Someone who wasn’t a mover or his landlady. A big part of the reason this apartment had become his sanctum was because no one he knew had ever been inside, so nothing could fuck up his... _feng shui._ Or whatever that shit was called.

“Jesus, Mick, are you going to make me stand out here all night?” Ian’s long-suffering voice came from outside the apartment.

_Shit._

Not stopping to think about it, Mickey jerked the door open. Ian stood there, staring at him. It looked like he was trying not to laugh.

“Uh, hey,” Mickey muttered. He had a tight grip on the door handle.

“Hey.” The smile Ian had been trying to hold back broke free, and he darted forward to press a quick kiss against Mickey’s cheek.

The casual affection of Ian’s touch never failed to fluster him.

“You, uh... You-you wanna come in?” Mickey stuttered.

_Goddamn it, what the fuck was wrong with him?_

“Yeah, if you don’t mind.”

Okay, easier said than done. Mickey forced himself to shuffle aside, and held the door open so Ian could step into the apartment.

Quickly, he shut it behind the other man, and leaned his back against the panelling. He found himself holding his breath as Ian looked around. He didn’t wrinkle his nose at the ratty furniture, or the still cluttered kitchen counter. Instead, Ian let out a little, “Huh.”

“What?” Mickey asked, immediately self-conscious.

“I was sort of expecting to find illegal science experiments in here. Or something. Think I might be disappointed.”

It took longer than it should have for Mickey to realise the other man was teasing him; it was Ian’s smile that gave it away.

“Asshole,” he grumbled, feeling his own grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You want the tour?”

“Sure.”

“Fine.” Gesturing in front of him, Mickey said, “That’s the living room.” He pointed to his left, adding, “Kitchen.” Taking the required five steps, he indicated to his right. “My room, the bathroom, the darkroom. An’ that’s it.”

“You have a darkroom in here?” Ian asked.

“Yeah. It’s supposed to be the main bedroom, but I figured I didn’t need a whole lotta space to sleep, y’know?”

“Can I see it?”

Mickey fidgeted at the question. God, if his apartment was private, then the darkroom was beyond that. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Ian would want to have a look around.

Swallowing hard, Mickey gave a jerky nod.

“Sure, I’ll, um... Yeah, that’s fine.”

He started toward the darkroom door when Ian’s hand on his arm stopped him. The redhead looked sheepish.

“I’m sorry. I’m being pushy. You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to. It’s just... I want to know you better, is all.”

_What the hell did he say to that?_ Mickey thought. Instead of answering, he gave Ian what he hoped was a reassuring smile before opening the door.

Mickey hated the anxiety he felt as Ian stepped inside. Fighting the urge to chivvy the other man out of the room, Mickey planted his feet, and forced himself to stay still. _Ian said he wanted to know me,_ Mickey reminded himself.

And this was probably one of the few things in his life that he could be proud of.

Looking around the room, Mickey tried to imagine what it looked like to an outsider. There was an enormous closet shoved in front of the window to block out the light. That had been a bitch to get up the stairs, and he’d had to pay the delivery guys extra to get them to do it. Inside the closet, he had most of his equipment. The room was only big enough for two tables, and on each table, there was a neat line of chemicals and the rest of his equipment.

But Ian didn’t appear to be paying any attention to that. Instead, his eyes were on the photos strung from one end of the wall to another.

“God, Mick...” Ian sounded impressed. “This is great.”

“You think?” Mickey asked shyly.

“Of course. I mean, I knew you took pictures, but I had no idea...” His voice trailed off as he took a step closer to the photos. Peering at them intently, Ian’s smile faded.

“I recognise some of these places,” Ian murmured. “Are these all from around this neighbourhood?”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_It’s not like you’re going to find much around here._

_You’d be surprised, Gallagher._

Ian remembered that conversation from months ago. He’d thought Mickey was being stupid. What could he possibly find in their neighbourhood worth photographing? The only people who would find anything remotely interesting about the South Side were the cops.

Except, maybe that wasn’t true.

One picture in particular had caught his attention. A group of men were huddled together on a playground. Baggy pants, padded jackets, and a trail of smoke dominated the photo; the stereotypical image of a bunch of ‘thugs’ smoking it up. But in the background, there was a little girl playing on the swing set, her head thrown back with laughter.

Words failed Ian for a moment. So rather than saying anything, he turned back to Mickey, and kissed him. Loving the feel of Mickey’s lips against his, Ian kept things soft and slow. He settled his hands on Mickey’s waist, urging him closer.

They finally broke away, and Mickey looked kind of dazed. It took a moment for him to speak.

“What was that for?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I just felt like kissing my boyfriend.”

Ian waited for Mickey to object, or to pull a face, or do something that would suggest that he was uncomfortable with the word _boyfriend_. Instead, he just nodded, and changed the subject.

“You like pizza bagels?” Mickey asked him suddenly.

“Pizza bagels?”

“Yeah. Turns out, when I invited you over, I didn’t check what I had in the freezer. Which are pizza bagels. An’ nothin’ else.”

“I can do pizza bagels.”

“Good, ‘Cause otherwise I was gonna go over to your place to get somethin’,” Mickey told him seriously. Then he turned on his heel, and left the room.

Staring after him, Ian just shook his head. Then he grinned.

_His boyfriend was weird._

_\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

It was after dinner, and Mickey and Ian were both seated on the couch. Mickey had found a channel that was airing a rerun of the first _Bad Boys_ movie, and he appeared to be engrossed in what was happening onscreen.

Meanwhile, Ian was less interested in the car chases and shootouts. He was watching Mickey from out of the corner of his eye, and cautiously inching closer to him. Every time Mickey would glance in his direction, Ian would pretend to be watching the movie. It was dumb, he knew, but he got a little kick out of the game they were playing, where Mickey tried to catch him staring.

Finally, Ian was sitting close enough to Mickey that their arms brushed together. A thrill ran up Ian’s spine at the light contact.

He wasn’t sure who moved first. One moment they were sitting side by side, the next Mickey was shifting around on the couch to straddle him; Ian’s hands were tugging at the hem of Mickey’s t-shirt, wanting to get to skin.

“Take this off,” he ordered after a moment. Mickey’s fingers had been busy at the fly of his jeans, but Ian brushed them aside. There’d be time for that later.

Letting out an impatient little growl, Mickey did as he was told. The shifting of Mickey’s weight on his lap made Ian edgy; he gripped Mickey’s hips to keep him still. As soon as the shirt was off, Ian allowed his hands to wonder.

Pale skin marred only by the occasional scar, firm muscles, and a soft belly; Ian loved touching Mickey, loved the way Mickey’s breath would hitch as Ian found a sensitive spot.

Ian ducked down to place a trail of nibbling kisses along the side of Mickey’s neck, while his hands slid down Mickey’s spine. Enjoying the feel of muscle flexing under his palms, Ian allowed one hand to smooth over Mickey’s skin as the other crept beneath the waistband of his jeans.

For once grateful that Mickey insisted on wearing them baggy, Ian’s fingers moved along the curve of the other man’s ass before running lightly over his hole.

The sound of suddenly laboured breathing made Ian smile. He allowed himself a lingering lick across Mickey’s collarbone before lifting his head.

“Hey, Mick?” he said quietly. All the while, his finger slowly circled Mickey’s entrance; Mickey was grinding back into him.

“What?”

“Think we should head to the bedroom about now?”

“Might be...” A groan. “Might be a good idea.”

He didn’t move, though, just continued to rock back into Ian’s hand.

“Tell you what,” Ian began, his voice slightly breathless. “Get us into a bed, and I’ll let you fuck me.”

It took a while for those words to sink in, and when they did, Mickey froze.

“What?” he asked again. Only this time, Mickey sounded more alert.

“I want you to fuck me.” Ian slowly withdrew his hand from Mickey’s jeans, and then rested both palms on the other man’s thighs. “I’ve been practicing,” he added mischievously.

Mickey stared down at him in surprise before his eyes glazed over for a moment. Judging by the little noise that escaped his throat, whatever mental image floating around Mickey’s head was being met with approval.

Underscoring that was the hasty way Mickey scrambled off his lap.

He grabbed hold of Ian’s arm, and pulled him off the couch.

“C’mon,” Mickey said thickly. “I wanna see what you’ve been practicin’.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_I’ve been practicing._

Christ, those words had almost made Mickey cum in his jeans. Imagining Ian on his back, thighs splayed as he pushed those long fingers inside himself, Mickey felt like he couldn’t catch his breath.

Mickey didn’t want to imagine it; he wanted to watch.

Clothes were pulled off and impatiently tossed aside. Quickly, Mickey fumbled around in the bedside drawer for a condom and the lube. He dropped them on the mattress, and then turned his attention to Ian.

“Get on the bed,” he said hoarsely.

He’d kind of expected an argument, but Ian didn’t say anything. Rather, he crawled onto the bed, giving Mickey the chance to trail his eyes from Ian’s back down to his ass. Mickey swallowed hard. Still taking his time, Ian turned onto his back, and spread his legs without Mickey having to ask.

Unconsciously licking his lips, Mickey joined Ian on the bed. But before he settled between the other man’s thighs, he bent to press a kiss to Ian’s lips. He held himself carefully over Ian, being sure not to let any part of their bodies touch. Mickey wouldn’t be able to hold on if he felt Ian’s skin against his.

Pulling back with a last tug at Ian’s bottom lip, Mickey scooted down the bed. Every now and then, he’d pause; lapping at Ian’s nipple, running his fingers lightly along Ian’s ribcage, sucking a hickey onto the skin of Ian’s thigh.

“Feels good,” Ian murmured, threading his fingers through Mickey’s hair.

Spurred on by the light tug on his scalp, Mickey nudged Ian’s legs further apart. Then, not giving the other man the chance to brace himself, Mickey ducked his head to flick his tongue across Ian’s hole.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

The sharp exclamation had Mickey looking up in concern.

“This okay?” he asked.

“Do that again,” Ian whispered. “Please.”

Grinning, because it was apparently better than okay, Mickey picked up where he’d left off. He kept things light at first, lapping at Ian’s entrance before moving on to open Ian up with his tongue.

He’d never heard Ian make those sounds before.

Ian’s fingers were tightening in his hair, and the muscles of his thighs were tense against Mickey’s shoulders. And when Mickey pulled away to grab the lube resting on the edge of the bed, Ian let out a little whine.

“Wha... Don’t stop,” he pleaded.

“Gimme a sec.” Mickey pressed a quick kiss to Ian’s thigh. Then, he dripped some lube onto his fingers. Rubbing his hands together to warm the stuff up, Mickey hurriedly turned his attention back to Ian.

“You tell me if this hurts, okay?” Mickey tried to make his voice stern. “I’ll stop as soon as you tell me.”

“Jesus, Mick, just shut the fuck up, and get inside me.”

Watching Ian lose control wasn’t helping Mickey hold onto his. He drew in a shaky breath before slowly pushing one finger inside Ian’s ass.

He was tight, but not so much so that Mickey would think he’d never done this before. The feel of Ian clenching around him made Mickey’s head swim.

“I can take more,” Ian murmured.

_Well, Mickey was glad one of them could._

Eyes fixed on where his finger was sliding in and out of Ian’s hole; Mickey carefully inserted a second finger. The accompanying groan had his dick throbbing in response.

And just that quickly, Mickey’s control snapped.

Withdrawing his fingers, Mickey snatched up the condom, and tore the wrapper open. Despite his urgency, though, he hesitated.

“You sure ‘bout this?”

Ian lifted his head off the pillow to glare at Mickey.

“If you don’t fuck me right now, Mick, I swear to God...”

Reassured that they were both on the same page, Mickey rolled on the condom. Even that light touch had him hissing in a breath. Fuck, he didn’t know how long he was going to last.

He settled his weight over Ian, their skin rubbing together as he positioned the head of his cock against Ian’s entrance. Teeth gritted, Mickey slowly pushed forward.

A gasp escaped Mickey’s throat. He was dimly aware of Ian’s hands gripping his ass, pulling him in deeper. All Mickey knew was that Ian felt amazing around him; for a minute, he didn’t move, clenching his fingers in the sheets as he tried to hold onto his control.

Pulling back, and then thrusting forward, Mickey heard Ian’s breath hitch, felt the other man’s thighs cradling his hips. He pumped into Ian a second time, and a third, before quickening his pace. Going fast and hard, Mickey could only just make out the sound of Ian’s voice over his heart pounding in his ears.

“Mick, slow, please.”

“Am I hurtin’ you?” Mickey asked, immediately going still.

“No, I just... I want to feel you.”

_Jesus, how was he supposed to go slow after hearing something like that?_

Taking his time, even though the effort made him pant, Mickey withdrew, until only the head of his cock remained inside Ian. Then, he pushed forward, going deep. He kept this up for a few minutes, until Ian was writhing against him, his whimpers loud in Mickey’s ears. He lapped at Ian’s skin, sucking hickeys along his throat.

“Faster,” Ian ordered. “Now.”

_Thank fuck._

Mickey sped up his thrusts, ignoring the way the mattress squeaked and groaned. He felt Ian’s arm come between them so he could jerk himself off. Sweat slick bodies were sliding together, and Mickey could feel Ian tightening around him.

_So good._

It wasn’t much longer before Ian came with a grunt. Mickey felt cum spurting between them, mingling with their sweat. He couldn’t hold back anymore. Crying out, he let go, the pleasure sending shudders through his body.

For a long while, neither of them moved. Pressed against each other, chests heaving as they fought to catch their breaths, Mickey just wanted to lie there. His muscles felt heavy, and he could feel his eyelids fluttering closed.

He wasn’t sure if he actually fell asleep, or if his brain was just so blissed out that he lost track of time. But Mickey eventually became aware of a pair of hands smoothing up his back.

“Hey, Mick? You awake?”

“Am now,” he muttered, his voice muffled against Ian’s skin.

“I think we need a shower,” Ian said ruefully.

“Not movin’.”

Those hands that had been lightly tracing patterns on his skin moved down to his ribs. Mickey jolted when Ian found ticklish spots.

“Aw, Gallagher, why you gotta do that?” Mickey complained. He rolled away from Ian, pulling a face when they stuck together.

“Come on,” Ian urged. “Or you won’t get any hot water.”

“Don’t care,” Mickey told him as he began burrowing under the covers.

“I’m not sleeping with you while you’re all gross and sticky.”

“Ugh, fine,” he grumbled. Easing out of bed, Mickey reluctantly followed his boyfriend into the bathroom.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who was Adam?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, there's some violence in this chapter. It's not fun, so proceed with caution.

Ian woke up a few hours later, his body loose and relaxed. Unfamiliar muscles ached, but in a good way. He let out a satisfied sigh. Man, they were going to have to do that more often.

Shifting around in the bed, Ian was just about to go back to sleep when he heard the man lying beside him let out a whimper. He abruptly realised that that was what had woke him up. Ian pushed himself up onto his elbows so he could stare down into Mickey’s face.

Eyebrows drawn together, Mickey was restless; his lips were moving, but Ian couldn’t make out what he was saying. A few seconds later, Mickey’s movements became more frantic, and he could finally hear Mickey repeating the same word.

“Adam.”

There was a sort of delayed reaction: Confusion for an instant before the sharp bite of hurt. The pain in Ian’s chest caught him off guard. After what had happened between them tonight, to hear Mickey saying another man’s name was devastating.

Who was Adam to Mickey that Mickey would be calling for him, even in his sleep?

 _Deep breaths_ , Ian told himself. Preparing to get out of bed as quietly as possible, he froze when Mickey started to moan.

“Get... run...” Mickey’s voice was muffled, and Ian had to strain to hear him. “He’s gonna...” His voice rose to a sudden shout. “Leave him alone!”

Mickey had gone from the occasional jerk to full on thrashing. The blankets were beginning to twist around him, and the restriction was making him even more frantic.

Understanding dawned, and the weight of the realisation hit Ian hard. Mickey was having a nightmare. He fumbled to turn the bedside lamp on.

Not sure if he should touch Mickey while he was like this, Ian tried calling his name.

“Mick, wake up! Mickey? Come on, Mick, snap out of it!”

There was no response; if anything, Mickey got more agitated.

“No, not... not you, too,” he muttered.

 _Maybe if he could move, he’d calm down a little_ , Ian thought. He scrambled to the foot of the bed, yanking the sheets back to free Mickey’s arms, at least.

It did seem to help. Mickey was still muttering under his breath, but he’d gone still, giving only the occasional twitch.

Hesitantly, Ian reached out to touch Mickey’s arm; before he made contact, he realised that Mickey was crying. His cheeks were wet with tears.

“Mick, wake up,” he said gently, giving the other man a little shake.

“Don’t touch me!” Mickey yelled. Arms freed from the sheets, he shoved Ian back. Landing on the floor, Ian didn’t have time to catch his breath before Mickey was on top of him, fist drawn back.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His eyes were open, but his brain wasn’t registering his surroundings. All Mickey could see was his father’s sneering face; all he knew was that those hard, bruising hands were outstretched towards him. So, he didn’t think, just lashed out.

A throbbing in his hand, accompanied by a cry of pain, shook Mickey out of his nightmare into the here and now.

Ian was lying on his back, mouth bloody and eyes wide. Still, it took a second for Mickey to put two and two together. His stomach heaved, and he had to swallow back bile.

He was hurting Ian. Just like he’d hurt Adam.

“ _Fuck_.”

Scrambling away from Ian as quickly as he could, Mickey could feel his hands trembling, his breaths coming faster and faster until he was hyperventilating.

One thought kept repeating through his panicked brain: _He’d hurt Ian._

A few feet away, Ian was sitting up cautiously. He gingerly prodded at his injured lip before turning his attention to Mickey.

“You okay?” he asked slowly.

A ridiculous question, considering what Mickey had just done to him.

“I’m sorry.” The words burst free from Mickey’s throat, and then that was all he could say. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...”

_Christ, Ian had to think he was crazy._

“Mick, it’s fine,” Ian said soothingly. He crept closer to Mickey, ignoring the way Mickey tried to scuttle away from him. “I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me.”

Finally, Mickey’s back was pressed against the wall; he couldn’t move, could only sit there as those same words tumbled from his lips.

“I’m sorry.”

Instead of trying to talk him down, or pull him into an embrace that would only make him feel claustrophobic, Ian sat beside him. The only contact between them was from where Ian’s hand was resting just above Mickey’s knee.

Mickey worked to concentrate on that light touch. No anger, no recrimination, only Ian silently telling Mickey that he was there.

It took a while for Mickey’s breathing to level out. Blinking back the worthless tears, he snuck a glance at Ian. The other man sat beside him calmly, looking for all the world as though he had nowhere else he’d rather be.

A wrenching sensation in his chest had Mickey’s breath speeding up again.

 _Was this what love felt like?_ Mickey wondered. He didn’t like it; it hurt too much.

“Sorry,” he muttered after a moment.

His voice was clearer this time, that edge of hysteria having disappeared. Ian could tell that he was himself again and immediately closed the distance between them. Wrapping an arm around Mickey’s shoulders, Ian pressed a kiss to his temple.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“Yeah, I’m...” Mickey fought the urge to apologise again. Instead, he pulled away to peer up at Ian’s face. He winced at the sight of the other man’s swollen lip.

“Should get some ice on that,” Mickey said gruffly.

Shrugging off Ian’s touch, he forced himself up from the floor. A new urgency was taking over him now. Without looking back at Ian, he hurried into the kitchen. He retrieved a bag of peas, and then the first aid kit.

“What are you doing?” Ian asked from behind him.

“Gonna patch you up.”

“Patch me—? Mick, trust me, I’ve gotten worse messing around with my brothers. This is nothing.”

But Mickey wasn’t listening. His fingers were fumbling around in the first aid kit. Where were the antiseptic wipes? Frustrated, he tipped the box over to sift through the contents, even though he knew they weren’t there.

He started to panic again.

“Mick, leave it. I’m fine.” Strong hands settled over his, stilling his agitated movements. “I promise you, I’m okay.”

Neither of them said anything for a few minutes, waiting for Ian’s words to sink in. Finally, Mickey nodded. Maybe if Ian said it often enough, Mickey would actually start to believe it.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Releasing an unsteady breath, Ian hesitantly followed Mickey back into the bedroom. His anxiety wasn’t from some misplaced fear that Mickey would hurt him. Tonight’s outburst aside, he’d never felt even vaguely threatened by Mickey. And, in hindsight, Ian mentally berated himself for the stunt he’d pulled. He should’ve known better than to touch Mickey while he’d been having some kind of episode.

No, this tension stemmed from the conversation they now needed to have.

_Who was Adam?_

Mickey clambered onto the bed, moving to lie with his back to the wall.

“Listen, Mickey... we need to talk.”

“No.”

Taken aback, Ian stared at Mickey incredulously. Reminding himself that he needed to be patient, Ian tried again.

“I really think we—” he began.

“Need to go to sleep,” Mickey cut him off. He began pulling the blankets up, studiously avoiding Ian’s gaze.

“You keep doing that!” Ian couldn’t contain his frustration this time. “Every time I think we’re getting somewhere, you push me away. I wish you’d talk to me.”

Mickey finally looked up, his expression bleak.

“Told you before, Gallagher, I don’t need you to fuckin’ save me.”

 _So they were back to Gallagher now_ , Ian thought derisively.

“I’m not trying to save you, you asshole! I’m trying to make this work, but you keep holding back.”

The silence was tense, and Ian waited for Mickey to start yelling at him. Instead, when Mickey next spoke, his voice was quiet.

“Given you all I can. The hell more d’you want?”

“Everything. Mick, I want all of you.”

When all Mickey did was stare at him, Ian decided to chance it.

“Who’s Adam?” he asked at last.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**_Eight Years Ago_ **

It was Mickey’s eighteenth birthday, and the Milkovich clan was celebrating at some local dive bar. Mandy had been spared the ordeal, her femininity for once working in her favour. Listening to the increasingly drunken yells of his brothers and uncles, Mickey just wanted to get the hell out of there.

On the verge of propositioning some random chick so that he’d have the excuse he needed to leave, Mickey saw something that had the words dying on his lips.

Bright blond hair and brown eyes; broad shoulders and slim hips; a sweet smile that didn’t belong.

Adam was here.

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck._

The night before, Mickey and Adam had had their own celebration. It hadn’t been much, just the two of them and a six-pack of beers, but it was enough. Mickey had allowed himself to relax as he and Adam sat quietly together, staring out over the Chicago skyline.

“I wanna come tomorrow night,” Adam said, breaking the silence.

And just like that, the moment was gone. Mickey found himself tensing up again.

“We’ve talked ‘bout this,” he answered shortly.

“What are you afraid of?” Adam had demanded. “That people will know you’re—”

“Shut up,” Mickey snapped. “You don’t get it. We’d both end up in shallow fuckin’ graves if my dad found out about us.”

“Oh, come on! You seriously expect me to believe he’d do something like that? You’re his son!”

“I could be Christ resurrected, an’ he wouldn’t give a shit. Now, leave it alone.”

Frustrated that Adam wouldn’t let it go, Mickey stood up to leave. Not much longer after that, Mickey had arrived home with a sour taste in his mouth. The night had been ruined. But still, even as he’d crawled into bed, Mickey had known that he and Adam would see each other in a couple days, and everything would be fine.

But Adam wasn’t supposed to be here. Not tonight.

Trying to make his way through the crowd, it was like the whole universe was trying to fuck him over. He could barely take two fucking steps without being waylaid by some drunken relative; each of them slapping him on the back, and congratulating him on finally _becoming a man_ , whatever the fuck that meant.

Through a building sense of urgency, Mickey forced himself to laugh and smile. All the while, he was aware of Adam’s position in the room. Until he was stopped by Joey.

“Mick!” his mountainous brother boomed. He took hold of Mickey’s shoulder, and gave Mickey a shake that made it feel like his teeth were rattling around in his head. “Happy birthday, bro!”

It took a long while to shake Joey off, and by that time, he’d lost sight of Adam.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

Momentarily giving up on subtly, he glanced around the room, craning his neck in the hopes that he’d catch a glimpse of Adam’s familiar blond curls.

Finally, Mickey spotted him. He was talking to Terry.

Panic clawed at Mickey’s throat; he tried to swallow it back as he hurried over to the pair. Mickey fought the urge to simply grab Adam by the arm, and drag him out of there. But it was hard.

“Hey, man,” Mickey said as he stopped beside his friend. “Didn’t know you were comin’.” This was said pointedly, a reminder of their conversation the night before.

But Adam just grinned at him.

“Course I came, Mick. It’s your birthday.”

There was an ugly look in Terry’s eyes, and his smile looked more like a snarl. Adam didn’t see it. Instead, he was drinking—more heavily than Mickey had ever seen him drink before—and swaying on his feet, as his voice got louder. At last, Adam lurched to the side, and Mickey seized on the opportunity to get him away from Terry.

“Take it easy, lightweight,” Mickey said, forcing a laugh. “Let’s get you outta here ‘fore you blow chunks.”

“But Mickey,” Adam’s whiney voice set his teeth on edge. “I’m havin’ fun.”

“Tough shit,” Mickey gritted out. Not giving Adam any more time to argue, Mickey took his arm in a tight grip, and steered him out of the bar.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he growled as Adam stumbled along behind him.

It was dark, and the quiet was jarring after the noise coming from the bar. Mickey couldn’t see anyone else around, but that didn’t stop him from tensing up when Adam turned to wrap his arms around Mickey’s shoulders.

“Cut the shit,” he said, trying to disentangle himself.

“Just tryin’ to give you a birthday kiss,” Adam slurred. Then, before Mickey could stop them, Adam brought their lips together.

Startled by the unfamiliar contact, all Mickey could do was rest his hands on Adam’s shoulders; did he shove the other man away, or did Mickey pull him closer?

Mickey never got to decide.

“Fuckin’ faggots,” a rough voice sneered.

Terror raced through Mickey. Immediately pulling away from Adam, he stared into his father’s cold expression. Terry had followed them out. His heart was pounding in his chest.

_They were gonna die tonight._

“Dad,” Mickey began, stepping in front of Adam, blocking him from Terry’s view. “It’s not what you think.” Maybe if he kept his father distracted, it would buy Adam some time to get the fuck out of there.

“Mr Milkovich, please,” came Andrew’s voice from behind him.

“The fuck you doin’?” Mickey whispered harshly. He chanced a quick look over his shoulder, hoping to signal to Adam to _fucking run_ , but Adam wasn’t paying any attention to him. His eyes were on Terry.

“Mickey is my best friend,” Adam continued earnestly. He was too drunk and stupidly naive to notice the way Terry’s features hardened at his words. “I lo—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Mickey shoved him hard, sending him staggering into the nearest wall.

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey snarled. He turned back to his father, desperately trying to come up with some kind of bullshit excuse to explain away what Adam had said.

“Do that again,” Terry said suddenly.

“What?” Mickey stared at him blankly.

“Teach the little pole smoker his place. Now.”

Opening his mouth to argue, he faltered when Terry reached back to pull out his gun. He levelled it at Mickey.

“Do it, boy. If you don’t, I will.”

“Dad, please—”

“Now!”

Mickey looked his father in the eye, and knew Terry meant it. If Mickey didn’t hurt Adam, Terry would. And he wouldn’t hold back, or stop.

Slowly, Mickey turned to Adam. His friend’s face was pale, and for the first time, he seemed to understand what was going on.

_Too fuckin’ late._

“I’m sorry,” Mickey whispered, so softly he wasn’t sure Adam heard him.

He let his fist fly.

The first hit sent Adam staggering backwards. The next forced a pained whimper from his throat. Finally, Adam fell to the floor, hands up to protect his face.

“Please, Mickey, stop,” he pleaded.

Breathing hard, Mickey wanted to puke. He kept his hands clenched at his sides to hide their trembling.

“Keep goin’,” Terry ordered.

“Dad, he’s—”

“Do it!”

Mickey swallowed hard as he saw his father’s hand tighten around the handle of the gun. Looking down at Adam’s tearstained face, he could see his own fear being reflected back at him. They stared at each other for a long moment.

That was the last time he looked Adam in the eye.

Losing himself in the motions, he aimed a kick at Adam’s side, his stomach. The sound of wheezing breaths were loud in the darkness and Mickey wasn’t sure where they were coming from. Was he the one gasping for breath like that, or was it the man curled up on the floor that was fighting for air?

Finally, Mickey stopped. A fragile calm settled over him; he waited for Terry to order him to continue. He knew that as soon as those words came, he’d break.

But all Mickey would hear was the sound of Adam’s sobs. Dimly aware of the throbbing pain in his hands, Mickey turned away from the man on the ground, and made his way towards Terry. He’d barely taken three steps passed his father when something hard smashed into the back of his head.

“Even hit like a faggot,” Terry’s distant voice snarled.

Down on his knees, Mickey couldn’t hold back the nausea this time. The pain was blinding, and his stomach lurched.

Shuddering, staring at a puddle of his own vomit, it took Mickey a few seconds to register the dull, thudding noises that were drifting through the still night air.

He knew what was happening before he even glanced over his shoulder.

Terry was standing over Adam’s prone from and, unlike Mickey, he didn’t care where his boots landed.

By this point, Adam wasn’t moving, wasn’t making a sound.

It seemed to take an eternity for his father to slow down. At last, the rain of blows halted. Leaning over, Terry spat in Adam’s battered face.

There was no response.

Stalking towards him, Terry grabbed Mickey by the back of his shirt, and gave him a painful jerk.

“Get up, pussy.”

Numb, Mickey did as he was told. His legs were unsteady, and his eyes kept flickering back to Adam.

 _Get up_ , he thought desperately. _C’mon, get up._

Adam didn’t move.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Jesus Christ.”

That shaken voice had Mickey looking up from the threadbare patch of carpet just in front of him. Ian’s face was pale; he reached out to touch Mickey, but hesitated at the last second. His hand dropped to his side.

It took a few seconds for Ian to search for the words to form some comforting, bullshit lie only to come up empty. Mickey probably could’ve broken the silence, but what was there to say?

“Was—” Ian drew in a deep breath. “Was Adam okay?”

A hopeful question, stupidly naive.

“Doctors had him on life support,” he murmured. “The, uh, the trauma... He didn’t make it.”

This time Ian’s hands didn’t falter. He pulled Mickey’s stiff body into the circle of his arms, and held him close.

“Mick, I am so sorry,” he whispered.

Body tensing back up, Mickey pushed away from the comfort Ian was offering. He didn’t deserve it. Not when Adam was rotting in the ground somewhere.

Not when Mickey had been the one to put him there.

“You should go,” Mickey said, getting to his feet.

“Wait, Mick—”

“I got work in the mornin’. An’ I don’t know how much sleep I’m gonna get tonight. I’ll just keep you up. So you should just... go.”

Within a few minutes, Ian had his clothes gathered to his chest, and was about to leave the apartment, albeit reluctantly. Mickey couldn’t hold back the relief he felt. He couldn’t fall apart with Ian here.

But instead of walking out the door, Ian paused.

“You know I’m here, right?” he said. His eyes searched Mickey’s expression as he continued. “Anything you need. Always.”

_What he needed was for Ian to leave._

Sensing that Ian wanted some sort of response, Mickey forced himself to nod. He may have even mustered a smile. Anything just to get Ian the fuck out of there before he cracked.

And then finally, _fucking finally_ , Mickey was alone.

Rather than heading into the living room or his bedroom, Mickey sank down onto the floor right where he was. Ignoring the cold tile against his skin, Mickey drew his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth convulsively.

Mickey didn’t get any sleep that night.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian laughed at that. Allowing the silence to stretch on, Mandy considered how much to tell him. They rarely shared information about their home life; when they did, it was strictly on a need-to-know basis, and it was as little as possible. But this guy seemed to care, went to the effort of speaking to Mickey when so many others gave her brother a wide berth.

Ian was worried. It’d been almost two weeks since Mickey had revealed what his father had done to him. And in that time, Ian had felt Mickey pulling back. There’d been no talk of Ian sleeping over again, and Mickey was making excuses for why he didn’t spend the night at Ian’s place.

Even their late night conversations had all but come to an end. There were days where Ian would come home and fall into bed, his headboard making its usual loud _thunk_ announcing his arrival, but there would be no response from next door.

He wondered if Mickey was avoiding him, or just not sleeping.

Lying in bed, Ian gazed at the wall separating him from next door, as though he’d be able to see through it if he stared long enough. He hated knowing that Mickey was struggling, hated that Mickey wouldn’t let him help.

A loud banging startled Ian from his thoughts.

_What the hell?_

“Mickey! Mick, open up!” a woman’s voice shouted.

More of what sounded like a fist slamming into the neighbouring apartment’s door, and then Ian could make out the sound of Mickey’s cell phone ringing. It was one of those generic tones, because Mickey couldn’t be bothered to choose something else.

As far as Ian knew, Mickey was working today. It wasn’t like him to leave his phone behind.

Concern spiking, Ian scowled as the woman at Mickey’s door kept up with the banging, the dull thuds getting progressively louder. Rolling his eyes impatiently, Ian out of bed, and stalked across his apartment.

Pulling his own door open, Ian stuck his head out into the hallway.

“He’s not here,” Ian told her, unable to keep the exasperation from his voice.

“Then where the fuck is he?” the woman demanded, rounding on him.

Ian took a moment to stare at her. She was about his age, with black hair, heavy makeup, and a nose ring. But it was the familiar glower on her face that Ian instantly recognised.

He knew exactly who this was.

“You’re Mandy, right?”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Narrowing her eyes at the ginger fuck smiling at her, Mandy wondered how he knew her name. A lifetime of experience had taught her to be wary of strange men, even one who happened to look like a goddamn Disney character.

“Who the fuck are you?” she asked suspiciously.

“I’m Ian,” he replied, not in the least bit phased by her unfriendly tone. He stepped further into the hallway, making Mandy nervous. “I’m uh...” Here he stumbled over his words slightly. “Mickey and I are neighbours,” he said finally, gesturing at his own apartment.

“Uh-huh.”

“Mickey talks about you sometimes,” he said after a moment of silence, obviously trying to make conversation. “That’s-that’s how I know your name.”

Okay, now Mandy knew this guy was full of shit. Her brother would never be described as chatty, even on the best of days. But for him to talk to a neighbour about his family? Wasn’t going to happen.

She’d just opened her mouth to tell him to back the fuck off when he interrupted her.

“You can wait inside, if you want. I’ll give him a call at work; tell him that you’re here.”

Taking a moment to think about it, Mandy nodded slowly. Her only real options otherwise were to either wait out in the hallway, or to come back later. Better to have Peter Pan tell Mickey to get his ass here than to wait for things to get worse.

The news she had couldn’t wait.

Before stepping into the apartment, Mandy paused to look Ian dead in the eye.

“Try anythin’ and I’ll fuckin’ knife you,” she warned.

For a second his eyes went wide with surprise. That was quickly replaced by amusement, though, and Mandy bristled as it looked like Ian was trying not to laugh.

“I mean it, dick breath,” she snarled.

“No, I know you do.” The redhead cleared his throat, schooling his face into a more serious expression. “Come on in.”

Giving him one last threatening look, Mandy entered the apartment. It was a little bigger than she would’ve expected; tidy, but not obsessively so.

Ian brushed past her into the kitchen.

“You want anything?” he asked. “Coffee?”

“Black, two sugars,” Mandy replied. Leaning her elbows on the kitchen table, she watched to make sure he didn’t put any weird shit in her drink.

“So, uh... you talked to Mickey lately?” Ian asked casually.

“Not for a couple days.” She stared at him, wondering why he’d brought it up.

His expression was carefully neutral now. Eyes on what he was doing, Ian gave a distracted nod. He didn’t say anything else.

“There a reason you’re askin’?”

“He’s just been a little... uncommunicative lately,” Ian replied.

A loud bark of laughter escaped Mandy at his comment. The redhead gave her a questioning look.

“ _Uncommunicative_?” she repeated incredulously. “That’s pretty much Mickey’s default settin’.”

“Most days,” Ian agreed.

Mandy was just about to open her mouth to correct him when she paused. Thinking back on some of what Mickey’s neighbour had said, it sounded like he knew her brother in more than just a “hi” and “bye” kind of way.

_Was Mickey friends with this guy?_

Accepting the coffee mug from Ian, Mandy perched on the couch while he pulled out his phone, and scrolled through it. She took a careful sip, all the while watching him intently; he gave her a quick smile.

_It was weird_ , she thought. He wasn’t the most likely candidate to be friends with Mickey. With his bright red hair and freckles, he looked too... wholesome to be in this neighbourhood in the first place. Still, that was the only explanation Mandy could come up with. How else had he known who she was?

“Hey, Debs,” Ian said after a moment. “How’s it going?”

He smiled at whatever was being said on the other end of the line.

“Uh, right. That’s great, Debs... Look, is Mickey around? I need to talk to him.”

Pausing to listen some more, Ian’s smile disappeared. Now, he looked concerned.

“He did? Yeah, that’s...” Ian pulled a face as the person he was talking to continued. He released a heavy sigh after a minute. “Just let me talk to him, alright?”

“What’s goin’ on?” Mandy demanded. She set her mug aside.

“It’s no big—Mick?” Ian suddenly broke off. “Hey, look, you forgot your cell at home.”

Mandy tuned in more closely to the conversation. The familiarity with which this guy spoke to her brother was interesting. His expression seemed more open somehow, and his voice had softened.

“I’ve got your sister here with me. She’s been trying to call—”

He stopped to listen to whatever Mickey was saying. His mouth turned down at the corners, and he briefly ran his gaze over Mandy. Instead of the leering she was used to, his eyes were filled with concern. It made her slightly uncomfortable.

“She’s fine, Mick, I promise. Even threatened to stab me if I messed with her.” Eyes warming at whatever the response was, Ian nodded. “Yeah, I’ll tell her. See you later.”

Hanging up, Ian stared at his phone for a few seconds before turning to Mandy.

“He’s leaving work now.”

“Thanks.”

There was an awkward silence, as Ian seemed to struggle to find something to do with himself. Mandy made no effort to make conversation. Instead, she leaned back in her seat, and continued to watch him.

“You Milkoviches are good at that,” Ian said after a few minutes.

“Good at what?”

“Long silences. It’s a pain in the ass getting Mickey to talk to me some days.”

“Surprised he talks to you at all,” Mandy replied frankly. “Mickey’s not a big talker, not unless it involves callin’ someone a fuck twat.”

Ian laughed at that. Allowing the silence to stretch on, Mandy considered how much to tell him. They rarely shared information about their home life; when they did, it was strictly on a need-to-know basis, and it was as little as possible. But this guy seemed to care, went to the effort of speaking to Mickey when so many others gave her brother a wide berth.

“We got used to it bein’ quiet at home,” she said finally. “When we were kids, our dad... He didn’t like noise. Not when we were the ones makin’ it.”

For the first time since she’d stepped into his apartment, Ian’s expression took on an unfriendly cast. His jaw had clenched at the mention of her father, and he stood up abruptly.

“You want more coffee?” he asked.

“I’m good.”

She listened as Ian stomped around the kitchen. Rather than try to talk to him some more, to figure out where the sudden mood swing had come from, Mandy stared around the apartment. A few minutes later, there was a loud banging at the front door. The sound made Mandy jump in surprise.

“Alright, I’m coming,” Ian grumbled.

He’d barely pulled the door open before Mickey was barrelling inside. Scanning the room, his eyes settled on Mandy. She saw the way his gaze quickly travelled over her; relief lit his expression before he could hide it.

“Hey,” she said, pretending she hadn’t noticed.

“Hey.”

Mickey glanced over his shoulder at Ian. Something passed between them, neither saying a word, and the redhead gave a reluctant nod. He headed into another room, giving Mandy and her brother some privacy.

“What are you doin’ here?” Mickey asked as soon as they were alone.

Licking her lips nervously, Mandy fiddled with one of her bracelets. _God, she didn’t want to be the one to tell him this._ Mickey looked terrible. He had dark circles under his eyes, and judging by the stubble on his face, he hadn’t bothered to shave in days.

“Dad got released this mornin’. Iggy went to get him.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few minutes later, Mickey was in his apartment, and he was roughly shoving some of his things into a duffle bag. Mandy’s words were ringing in his ears, but he was trying not to think about what they meant.

_But it was kind of hard to ignore, right?_

Because here Mickey was, preparing to move back into his old home, with someone who’d made his life a living hell.

He wanted to be sick.

The sound of his front door opening distracted him. The thing slammed shut with a rattle. He was too freaked out over what he was about to do to muster any real outrage about someone being in his apartment uninvited.

“What are you doing?”

Turning around, Mickey found Ian standing at the entrance to his bedroom. They hadn’t spoke, like _really spoken_ , in days.

Mickey had missed him.

“I’m goin’ home,” he replied. Not wanting to look at Ian, to see the hurt bewilderment there, he continued packing.

“You are home, Mick.”

Yeah, he was. But that didn’t matter. Mandy needed him, and he couldn’t leave her alone to face their father. He didn’t argue the point.

“Look, I’ll still call an’ come over,” Mickey said at last, trying to take the sting out of this for both of them. “An’ I’ll keep this place for as long as I can.”

“You’re being—” Ian took a deep breath. “This is insane. Mandy can just stay with you. There’s no fucking reason for either of you to go back there.”

But Mickey was already shaking his head.

“I gotta take care of her.”

“Now you want to be the big brother?” Ian scoffed. “You left her alone with a boyfriend who beats the shit out of her.”

Silence as his words hit their mark. Mickey’s hands froze.

“Shit, Mick... I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”

“The fuck for?” Mickey muttered. “You’re right. I fucked up before. But I’m gonna do better this time.” He grabbed the last of the things he’d be taking with him, zipping up his duffle bag.

Taking a deep breath, Mickey started to heave his bag onto his shoulder when he felt Ian’s warm touch on his arm. He closed his eyes, trying to commit the contact to memory. It would probably be the last time he felt Ian’s skin against his for a long while.

He reached up to squeeze Ian’s hand briefly before pulling away.

“I’ll call you.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because right now, home meant a delicate balancing act. He had to step back into the role of the old Mickey—angry, vicious, and violent—while trying so hard to hold onto the person he’d become. Remembering the feel of Ian’s hands on his skin, while pretending to leer at the scantily clad women who frequented the same dive bars he and his brothers went to. The uncomfortable sensation of sleeping with his back to the wall while thinking longingly of the apartment where he’d once felt so safe.

So Mickey was finally home. He could think of a whole, long list of bullshit sayings people had about being home.

_Home is where the heart is._

_There’s no place like home._

_Home sweet home._

Mickey wondered what that would be like. Having _home_ mean safety, love, acceptance. For as long as he could remember, the Milkovich kids had never been able to apply those words to the shabby house they shared with their father.

Because right now, _home_ meant a delicate balancing act. He had to step back into the role of the old Mickey—angry, vicious, and violent—while trying so hard to hold onto the person he’d become. Remembering the feel of Ian’s hands on his skin, while pretending to leer at the scantily clad women who frequented the same dive bars he and his brothers went to. The uncomfortable sensation of sleeping with his back to the wall while thinking longingly of the apartment where he’d once felt so safe.

The worst part about it all was how easily he fell back into old habits.

Waking up the next morning with one hell of a hangover, Mickey pulled a face at his phone. The alarm was piercing; he wanted to fling the thing across the room. Barely resisting the temptation, he dragged himself out of bed.

A little while later, Mickey stumbled out of his room.

_Coffee_ , he told himself. _All he needed was coffee, and he’d make it through the day._

“Where the fuck d’you think you’re goin’?” a rough voice demanded.

Instinctively, Mickey froze. He hadn’t reverted back to his old self as well as he’d thought if he’d managed to let Terry catch him off guard like this.

“Work,” Mickey replied. He knew to keep his answers as short as possible; the less his father knew the better for everyone.

The older man’s face twisted into an ugly expression. It was unusual for Terry to be awake this early. Going by his reddened face and bloodshot eyes, he hadn’t been to sleep yet.

Mickey had to tread carefully.

“That faggoty job you got takin’ pictures?” Terry scoffed. “Well, tough shit, you ain’t goin’. I got work for you an’ Iggy.”

He heaved himself to his feet, and started passed Mickey.

“I can’t just not go,” Mickey said before he could stop himself.

_Big mistake._

The back of Terry’s hand slammed unerringly into Mickey’s jaw. Staggering from the force of the blow, Mickey didn’t have time to defend himself. Terry grabbed the front of his shirt, and shoved him against the wall; Mickey’s head banged back into the plaster.

“Listen to me, you little shit. You think I don’t know it was you that called the cops on me?” Terry leaned in loser, and Mickey could smell the alcohol on his breath. “You’re gonna do whatever I fuckin’ tell you, we clear?”

Feeling those hard, hurting hands on him, all Mickey could do was nod. It was like he was a kid again, helpless in the face of his father’s rage.

Terry held onto him for a moment longer.

“Pussy,” he sneered, abruptly releasing Mickey. He stalked towards his bedroom, leaving Mickey alone in the hallway.

His breaths coming heavily, jaw beginning to ache, Mickey couldn’t help but agree. He stood there for a long while, waiting for the panic to abate, before reaching for his phone. Fingers trembling, Mickey scrolled through his contacts for Alfred’s number.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been almost two weeks since Mickey had quit his job. He tried to feel relief that at least he didn’t have to deal with Alfred’s well-meaning questions, and Svetlana and Debbie’s caustic remarks about the alcohol they could smell on him; instead, all he felt was hollow.

That job had saved his life, gotten him out of his childhood home.

Now he’d have to leave that behind too.

The only thing keeping him sane at that point was the texts and phone calls he managed to sneak with Ian. These were sometimes strained, but Mickey couldn’t explain the relief he felt at being able to hear Ian’s voice, even if it was only for a few minutes.

But any comfort he may have gained from talking to Ian that morning had given way to an almost crippling anxiety. Because while Mickey and his brothers spent most nights drinking in some dingy hole in the wall, they usually did so alone.

Except, Terry had decided to join them tonight.

Gulping back the shot of cheap whiskey the bartender had just placed in front of him, Mickey tried to keep his hands steady. He felt his father’s stare on the back of his head. He ordered another shot.

Most days, the booze helped Mickey sleep without nightmares. Tonight, he just needed it to numb him to whatever it was Terry had planned for him.

For a few hours, though, nothing happened. They drank; Iggy was pool sharking some guy too drunk to stand upright; and Terry was talking to one of his cronies quietly.

Mickey would later blame it on the alcohol, but for a minute, he thought that maybe things wouldn’t be so bad.

He was midway through his next drink when he felt a hand tapping his shoulder. Turning around, Mickey met a pair of pale blue eyes.

The woman standing behind him was tiny, like a bird. She was wearing a short skirt, towering heels, and her face was heavily made up. Mickey gave her a blank look.

“You want somethin’?” he asked flatly.

Licking her lips suggestively, she took an unsteady step forward; it was clear that she’d been drinking. A small hand landed on his thigh, close to his crotch, and gave a meaningful squeeze.

“Wanna fuck?”

Caught off guard by the question, Mickey’s first instinct was to tell her to fuck off, to knock her hand aside. But something out the corner of his eye made him hesitate. Glancing over the tiny woman’s shoulder, he caught Terry staring at them.

And just like that, Mickey felt his whole body tense up.

“Well?” she asked expectantly.

Eyes drawn back to the young woman, Mickey swallowed hard.

“Sure,” he answered finally.

His skin crawled as she grabbed his hand. Iggy grinned at Mickey as he was led back to the bathrooms; Terry’s triumphant expression followed him into the empty stall.

The woman whose name he hadn’t bothered to ask dropped to her knees in front of him. He felt her fingers plucking at his zipper, and had to clench his fists to keep from pushing her away from him. Cold hands brushing his skin: they were too soft, too small, to feel right. He couldn’t even pretend she was Ian, because she _just didn’t feel right._

Mickey closed his eyes as a shudder passed through him. Trying desperately not to think about what was happening to him, Mickey stared blankly up at the ceiling.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Being the only member of the Milkovich family to have a real job was a pain in the ass. It wasn’t just the shitty pay, and having to work regular shifts that sucked; it was having to tiptoe around her own goddamn house because some people had decided to get shit-faced the night before.

Adding to her irritation was the low, sporadic buzzing she kept hearing. She’d been looking for the source of the sound for the past ten minutes, to no avail. Mandy figured it was one of her brothers’ phones; once she found the thing, she was going shove it up whoever’s ass.

That fucking buzzing started up again. Muttering under her breath, Mandy followed the sound into the living room, where she eventually found the phone under the couch.

_How drunk had those assholes been last night?_

She pushed the couch back so she could reach the phone. It stopped buzzing just before she picked it up, and she let out a sigh of relief. That sound was fucking annoying.

Mandy didn’t bother putting the couch back into place. Instead, she settled onto it, and flipped the phone over to see who it belonged to.

_Bet it’s Iggy’s_ , she thought with a roll of her eyes. _Dumb fuck would lose anything not taped to his goddamn forehead_.

Lips quirking up in a smile at the thought of doing just that, Mandy checked the screen.

**Ian (37)**

There were texts too.

**I’m worried about you.**

**What’s going on?**

**Call me.**

Understanding slammed into Mandy; her fingers hesitated over the screen. It would be so easy to clear the missed calls and texts, and pretend she hadn’t seen anything.

_Fuck, hadn’t they been through all this before?_

She took a minute to consider her options. Mickey would be furious if he knew she’d gone through his phone. But damn it, she was worried about him. He was drinking more and more, and there were days where he’d give her this dead-eyed look, so eerily similar to their father’s. It scared the shit out of her.

Maybe Ian could help.

Decision made, Mandy dialled Ian’s number. She glanced around the quiet house furtively. Last thing she needed was for Kenyatta to catch her talking to another man.

“Mick?”

The frantic sounding voice on the other end of the line brought her back to the present.

“Are you okay?” Ian continued when Mandy didn’t answer immediately. “Jesus Christ, Mick, talk to me.”

It was the concern in his tone that convinced her.

“You’re the neighbour guy, right?” Mandy asked, just to be sure.

“Who is—?” Ian paused for a moment. “Mandy? What’s going on? Is everything okay?” There was a new urgency in his voice now.

“Shut up,” Mandy snapped, not having time for his babbling. “I can’t talk long. I’m gonna text you an address, an’ then you’re gonna meet me there at one, okay?” Silence on the other end of the line. “Okay?” Mandy repeated impatiently.

“Yeah, fine. I’ll be there.”

“An’ don’t be late.”

With that, Mandy hung up and hurriedly texted through the address of the diner where she worked. Then, she placed the phone back under the couch.

Satisfied that everything looked more or less the same as it had before, Mandy headed off to get ready for work.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ian showed up at the diner twenty minutes early. Too keyed up to seat himself at one of the tables, he instead paced outside. A couple of people gave him wary looks, but he didn’t care. All Ian could think about was Mickey’s slurred voice from the night before.

He hadn’t been expecting the call. Most days, they texted back and forth between them; sometimes, Mickey got a chance to call while he was out of earshot of his family. But he’d never called twice in one day before.

Answering the phone, Ian had allowed himself to entertain the hope that Mickey was calling to say he was coming home. He’d tell Ian that Terry had been arrested, or been in a terrible accident, or _something_ that meant that Mickey didn’t have to stay with that evil piece of shit.

Those hopes crumbled the instant he heard Mickey’s voice.

“Mick?”

“I’m sorry,” the voice slurred. “I fucked up. But I promise, Ian, I didn’t... I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Hold on,” Ian said, trying to catch up. He felt prickles of alarm creeping up his spine. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

A bitter laugh in response to that last question.

“He was lookin’ right at me, Ian. I-I... She would’ve told him. Fuck, I can still...”

_Breathe_ , Ian told himself. _Just keep calm_. Only, it was hard. He’d never heard Mickey like this before. Even when Mickey had told him about Adam, his voice had been deadened. This was close to panic.

Pushing aside the thought of who she was and what she’d done—Ian had a pretty good idea that the _he_ Mickey was talking about was his father—he tried to speak in a soothing voice.

“It’s going to be okay, Mick. Alright? Can you get out of there?”

“No.” For a second Mickey sounded completely sober. “I’m stuck here.”

Ian couldn’t think of anything to say to that. Before he could put together some comforting words, the line went dead as Mickey hung up.

He’d spent the rest of the night trying to get hold of the other man.

“Jesus Christ, would you tone it down? You look like a fuckin’ nut job.”

The harsh female voice had Ian looking up. Standing a few feet away from him, Mandy was wearing a bright red and orange uniform. On her head was a hat with a stuffed squirrel perched perilously on top. The cheerful ensemble was completely at odd with the scowl on her pretty face.

It was too much. Stress over Mickey coupled with several weeks worth of restless sleep, and Ian cracked.

Laughter broke free before he could stop it.

Feeling his shoulders shaking with the force of his snickers, Ian tried to get himself under control. Christ, he was tired. And he missed Mickey so much it made his chest ache.

Finally, he managed to pull himself together. Aware of Mandy giving him a strange look, he scrubbed roughly at his cheeks, brushing away the tears caused by his near hysterical laughter.

“Sorry about that,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it. You get used to dealin’ with crazy in my house.”

“Is it that bad?”

Mandy hesitated before offering an awkward shrug.

“Some days are better than others. But... Mickey’s not doin’ too good.”

Nodding, Ian felt his shoulders slump. It wasn’t like this was news. Even if Mickey hadn’t called last night, the overall tone of his last couple of texts and phone conversations would’ve clued Ian in. Still, it hurt to have it confirmed.

“Look, you mind if we sit somewhere? My feet are killin’ me,” Mandy said, suddenly sounding tired.

“Of course,” he responded automatically.

He followed her around the diner to what was a side entrance. There were three steps leading to a door, and the alleyway was littered with trashcans and cigarette butts.

While Mandy lowered herself to the middle step with a groan, Ian resumed his pacing.

“Gonna wear holes in your shoes,” Mandy told him. She stretched her legs out in front of her, and her stockings seemed to glow, even in the shadows.

“What happened last night?” Ian asked, ignoring her comments. “Mickey called me, drunk out of his mind.”

Mandy hesitated. Giving him a piercing look, she asked him a question of her own instead.

“You fuckin’ my brother?”

“Is that a problem?”

“For you, yeah. Didn’t end well for the last guy who got into it with Mickey.”

“You know about that?” Ian asked, surprised. He wouldn’t have thought that Mickey had told anyone about what had happened.

“I cleaned him up after.”

“He told me about it a couple weeks ago,” Ian said after a second. “That’s the only reason I haven’t been over to see him. I don’t want to put him through that again. If it weren’t for that piece of shit father of yours, I would’ve dragged Mickey out of there.” He took a shuddering breath. “What happened last night?” he asked again.

“I wasn’t there,” she said finally. “But from what I heard, he hooked up with someone. A chick.”

That pretty much confirmed his suspicions. Still, it didn’t lessen the sense of betrayal Ian felt. He hadn’t been with anyone since Mickey had moved out from next door.

“Get that look off your face,” Mandy told him sharply. “The last time I saw Mickey that drunk was after Adam died. Iggy just ‘bout had to carry him home.”

Silence as Ian tried to get his head around the idea of someone else touching Mickey.

“Why’d you call me?” he asked after a while.

“Thought maybe you could talk to him. He’s... he startin’ to get like he used to be before.”

“I don’t know what you think I can do about—”

“Cut the shit,” she snapped, interrupting him. “He cares about you. An’ since you spent most of last night an’ this mornin’ callin’ him, I’m gonna take a wild guess, an’ say you do too.” The anger suddenly drained out of Mandy, leaving her looking very young. “ _Please_. He can’t keep goin’ on like this.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still, he could deal. He was a Milkovich, after all. One of the first things he’d learned as a kid was how to deal with disappointment. There was only one thing getting to him, though. And that was not hearing from Ian.

Mickey’s head hurt. It was just passed midday and the bright light that snuck through the gaps in the curtains made him wince. It’d been another long night of drinking, and Mickey was preparing himself to do it all over again.

He figured that if he got a sort of momentum going, he could make his way through however long it took Terry to get arrested again in a drunken haze.

It would be better that way. At least he wouldn’t have to think too hard about how his life was falling apart around him.

In the week since Terry had first accompanied his sons on one of their binges, everything had turned to shit. He’d gotten a call from Linda to yell at him for missing last month’s rent; and she’d warned him that if he didn’t pay up, she was going to sell his shit, and rent the place to someone else.

Now, Mickey was going to lose his sanctuary too.

Refusing to dwell on it, Mickey had told her that he’d come by to get some of his stuff—specifically his camera equipment—and then she could do whatever the hell she wanted.

Still, he could deal. He was a Milkovich, after all. One of the first things he’d learned as a kid was how to deal with disappointment. There was only one thing getting to him, though. And that was not hearing from Ian.

There’d been radio silence on that front for days.

Mickey knew he could just as easily be the one to pick up the phone to call or text, but... Jesus, he was afraid. That last phone call was a hazy memory of nonsensical babbling, and he cringed every time he thought about it.

_What if Ian didn’t want him anymore?_

Loud banging from the living room got his attention. Then, angry yelling.

“Who the fuck you been talkin’ to, huh?”

“It’s none of your fuckin’ business!”

The sound of flesh hitting flesh. Not stopping to think, Mickey bolted upright, and barrelled out of his bedroom. And he wasn’t the only one. Iggy had arrived a few seconds before him, wielding a baseball bat.

“Okay, I’ve ‘bout had enough of you,” Iggy snarled. “You get the fuck outta this house. Now!” he yelled when Kenyatta didn’t move.

“Fuckin’ bitch,” the big man spat in Mandy’s direction.

Mickey and Iggy each took a threatening step towards him before he spun on his heel, and slammed out of the house. Iggy lowered the bat with a relieved sigh.

“You okay?” Mickey asked his sister. Mandy had her back against the wall, the side of her face already beginning to swell. A fresh surge of fury went through Mickey; he wished he’d thought to grab a gun.

“Didn’t have to do that,” she muttered.

An incredulous sound escaped Iggy before Mickey could respond. He didn’t think he’d ever seen his stoner brother so pissed off about anything.

“Guy’s a piece of shit,” Iggy said with a frown. “You deserve better, sis. Someone who treats you nice. An’ who don’t forget to put the milk back in the fridge.”

And there was the Iggy they all knew so well.

Rather than waiting for Mandy to say anything, Mickey went to raid their near empty freezer. There he found the ever present bag of peas they kept around for whenever one of the Milkoviches found themselves with a busted face. He handed it over to Mandy.

“You let him back in here, an’ he’s gonna wake up dead,” Mickey told her quietly. Iggy made a sound of agreement from behind him.

Mandy nodded, but he didn’t know how much she heard of what he was saying. Staring at her as she pressed the bag to her cheekbone, she looked so much like their mother.

“Speakin’ of shitty boyfriends,” she said once Iggy had returned to his room. “You’re bein’ one, too. Ian,” she said impatiently at his blank look. “You need to call him.”

Freezing instinctively, Mickey could feel his heart thundering in his chest. He quickly glanced over his shoulder in the direction of Terry’s bedroom.

“Calm down. He was so shit-faced last night, you could hit him with a fuckin’ car, an’ he wouldn’t notice,” Mandy said, following his gaze.

“Iggy—” he began.

“Wouldn’t give two shits. ‘Less it somehow kept him from getting high.”

Neither of them said anything for a few seconds. Letting out an unsteady breath, Mickey gave a little shrug.

“Dunno if he wants to see me.” He paused as something occurred to him. “Wait, how d’you know ‘bout me an’ Ian?”

“I’m not an idiot. I saw how you two were lookin’ at each other in his apartment. An... I found your phone,” she admitted sheepishly.

“You went through my phone?” Mickey demanded, outraged.

“Lose the fuckin’ attitude. You left it under the couch, an’ the goddamn thing wouldn’t stop buzzin’. You’re lucky I found it,” Mandy pointed out.

“So, what? You... you talked to him?” He tried to tamp down on the sense of violation coursing through him.

“Yeah, a little. He’s worried about you, Mick. Don’t be an ass; call him.”

Giving Mickey one last serious look, Mandy left him standing alone in the living room.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey stepped into his old apartment building for the first time in weeks. He looked around, half expecting things to have changed. But no, it all looked the same. There was that one flickering light bulb; the carpet was still shabby; Linda still had her office on the bottom floor, where she alternated between doing paper work, and terrorising her tenants.

He wondered if she’d had her baby yet.

As Mickey took the stairs, he hoped Ian would be home. He didn’t know when he’d get the chance to get away from Terry again. The older man had gone on the mother of all binges the night before, mixing it up with cheap shots of whiskey and meth.

It had been a nightmare to deal with last night, but now Mickey was grateful, because it meant Terry would be out for hours still.

That would give Mickey the time he needed to talk to Ian.

Hands extended to shove the stairwell door open, Mickey paused instinctively when he heard talking out in the hallway. Listening intently, he felt his heart speed up at the sound of that familiar voice.

_Ian._

Relief, excitement, and apprehension warred inside him. His only thought was of seeing Ian, touching him, breathing in the scent of his skin.

Barrelling out into the hallway, the beginnings of a smile on his face, Mickey froze when he spotted Ian and the man who was with him. It was Ian’s date from the wedding, the one who’d wanted to rip Mickey’s head off. They were both laughing, and Ian’s expression was relaxed.

The big guy turned around; his smile immediately slid away from his face when he caught sight of Mickey.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

Big Guy’s voice had Ian looking up from where he’d been locking up his apartment. His lips parted in surprise as he met Mickey’s gaze from across the hallway.

Mickey’s view of Ian was blocked when the black man stepped between them, almost like he thought he was protecting Ian, or something.

The thought made Mickey’s hackles rise.

“I fuckin’ live here, fuck face,” he snapped, answering the guy’s earlier question.

That brought the big man up short. He gave Mickey a disbelieving look before glancing over at Ian. The redhead didn’t seem to be paying any attention the argument taking place; instead, all his focus appeared to be centred on Mickey.

“You live here?” Ian’s friend repeated. “You’re Ian’s neighbour?”

Something about the way the other man said it clued Mickey in that he knew more than Mickey was comfortable with. He probably shouldn’t have been surprised that Ian had talked about him to a friend. That’s what normal people did, right? They sometimes shared details of their relationships with the people around them. And Mickey liked to think that maybe, if the situation were different, if he hadn’t found himself living with Terry, he’d maybe be cool with it.

Instead, Mickey felt his expression harden.

“Not for much longer. Now get the fuck outta my face,” he sneered.

Refusing to look in Ian’s direction, Mickey hastily unlocked his apartment door, and slammed it loudly behind him.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“That’s the guy you’ve been screwing? He’s the reason you went from practically singing show tunes, to me wanting to put you on suicide watch?”

Andrew’s voice was dripping with judgement. Abruptly snapping out of the surprised daze Mickey’s appearance had sent him into, Ian felt a spike of anger.

And it wasn’t directed at his friend.

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” he told Andrew through clenched teeth.

“What? Why?”

“Because I need to talk to Mickey.”

Barely aware of his friend’s exasperated muttering, Ian waited until Andrew had disappeared behind the stairwell door before he moved. Then, once he was sure he had his temper more or less in check—at least for now—Ian stalked over to Mickey’s door.

Not bothering to knock, Ian barged inside the apartment, allowing the door to bang loudly against the wall.

Mickey was standing in the middle of the living room; his shoulders were slumped dejectedly. As soon as he saw Ian, though, he rallied. There was that familiar defiance in the way he stared Ian down from across the room.

“Get the fuck out,” he barked.

“No.”

Reaching behind him, Ian shut the door. God, he was so angry with Mickey right now. Furious that he’d left Ian hanging for so long, that Mickey was allowing his father to control him this way.

But it was hard to hold onto all of that with Mickey standing in front of him.

“What, were you just going to pack your shit, and leave without saying anything?” Ian asked quietly. “Stop taking my calls, pretend nothing happened? But wait, that’s what you’ve been doing.”

“Not gonna get into this with you,” Mickey told him, voice cold. “We’re done.”

The other man turned his back, acting as though Ian weren’t even there. Ian felt himself snap.

Striding forward, Ian grabbed Mickey’s arm, spinning him around to face Ian. He staggered back a step when Mickey shoved him away. Ian knew he was pushing too hard, but he couldn’t help it. His earlier anger drained away, desperation taking its place.

“That’s it? After everything, that’s all you’ve got to say to me?”

“Don’t forget to shut the door behind you.”

He moved closer, ignoring Mickey’s clenched fists.

“You’re really just going to let him take everything from you?” Ian demanded. “You’re too fucking scared to fight for the people you care about, when it’s so much easier to be a good little boy?”

“Fuck you!” Mickey yelled. “You don’t fuckin’ understand.”

“I understand that you’re so fucking afraid of your dad, that you’re willing to live a lie.”

“Why the fuck d’you even care?”

“Because I love you, you asshole!”

Silence as they both stared at each other. Mickey’s face had paled, and Ian could feel his chest heaving as though he’d been running flat out. _Shit, he hadn’t planned on blurting it out like that._

_Didn’t make it any less true._

“I love you,” Ian repeated as he slowly moved closer.

Mickey didn’t say a word. Only inches separated them now.

“And if you give half a shit about me, you won’t do this.” Ian waited for some sort of response, for some grand gesture that he knew wasn’t coming, but was still stupidly hoping for. “Mick, please.”

He didn’t know what made Mickey do it. Maybe it was because of the way Ian’s voice broke there at the end, or if Mickey hated the distance between them as much as he did. All he knew was that Mickey was lurching towards him, and that after weeks of being apart, they were finally touching each other again.

A little voice in Ian’s head tried to remind him that this wasn’t what he’d come here for. They needed to talk. They needed to work things out. But with the feel of Mickey’s lips against his, Ian’s brain shut down.

They could talk later. _This_ was what he needed.

Sliding his hands along Mickey’s body—up his chest, brushing along his collarbones to cup his jaw—Ian concentrated on the familiar feel of Mickey pressing up against him. He sucked Mickey’s lower lip between his teeth, giving it a little nip before releasing it. The kiss got rougher after that, and Ian’s cock was aching in his jeans.

Almost frantic now, Ian dropped his hands to cup Mickey’s ass, pulling Mickey tighter against him. The little whimper that escaped the other man’s throat went straight to Ian’s head.

“Bed,” he gasped, reluctantly breaking the kiss.

“Here,” Mickey snapped back.

Ian could feel Mickey’s hands working at the fly of his jeans, his slightly rough fingers brushing against Ian’s skin. It was tempting to force Mickey to his knees, just to fuck him on the shabby carpet.

“We need lube,” he gritted out as Mickey freed his cock.

“For fuck’s sake.”

Still, neither of them moved. Mickey appeared determined to refamiliarise himself with Ian’s body, drinking in the way Ian shuddered and moaned as Mickey touched him. Resting his hands on Mickey’s shoulders, Ian closed his eyes and tried to remember how to breathe.

It wasn’t long before Ian felt his control threatening to slip. He grasped Mickey’s wrists to halt his movements.

“Bedroom. Now.”

They stumbled across the apartment, neither of them willing to release the other for more than a moment. Clothes were scattered all over the floor, and Ian almost tripped as he tried to kick off his shoes and grope Mickey at the same time.

Laughing breathlessly, they finally made it to the bed. Ian gave Mickey a none-too-gentle shove onto the mattress. He didn’t hesitate before crawling over Mickey’s prone form. Their kisses were messy now; Ian could feel nails digging into the skin of his shoulders.

“Pants,” Mickey muttered as he wriggled around. “Get ‘em off.”

He let out a frustrated groan. _Fuck, what was the deal with all these goddamn clothes?_ Forcing himself to give Mickey some room to drag his pants off, Ian used the time to rummage around for lube and a condom.

“Get back here.”

Mickey was finally naked. As impatient as they both were for this, Ian still took a moment to look at him. The pale skin of Mickey’s thighs, the flush creeping up his chest, the way his lips were swollen from Ian’s kisses.

_God, he’d missed Mickey so much._

Abruptly reaching the end of his rope, Ian hurriedly ripped open the condom wrapper. The act of rolling the latex over his cock and lubing himself up made him hiss in a breath; all the while, he could feel Mickey watching him. Meeting Ian’s heated gaze, Mickey licked his lips slowly.

_Fuck._

Climbing back onto the bed, sliding his chest against Mickey’s... it felt amazing. Strong thighs cradled his hips; rough hands were trailing up and down his back. Ian manoeuvred himself so he could reach Mickey’s hole, circling his entrance slowly with his fingers before pushing inside.

“Christ, Ian,” Mickey gasped beneath him. “Missed this. Missed...” His breath hitched as Ian found his prostate. “Missed you. So much.”

He couldn’t speak. A few seconds of fucking Mickey with his fingers, feeling Mickey grinding back against him, and Ian couldn’t hold on anymore, either. Sliding his fingers free from Mickey’s hole, Ian grasped at his own cock. Unable to wait, desperate need riding him hard, Ian thrust forward.

_So good._

He wanted to hold back, to take it slow. After so long, they should be savouring this. They were together again.

Maybe that was why he couldn’t get a hold of his self-control. He needed this. With every buck of Mickey’s hips against him, with every harsh breath and desperate kiss, Ian felt okay again. Mickey was here with him, where he belonged.

Ian couldn’t get enough of the feel of Mickey’s skin. He held Mickey close, thrust into Mickey roughly as a distant voice in his head warned him that maybe he was being too rough. But the thought had dissolved before he could examine it too closely.

“Fuck... I’m gonna...” Mickey’s voice was hoarse as he panted against Ian’s shoulder. “Keep doin’... Oh, God, Ian.”

Nails were digging into his back, and Mickey was clenching around him. Ian was aware of the other man’s incoherent babbling; he could feel cum—hot and sticky—against his skin as their chests slid together.

But Ian couldn’t let go.

As good as this felt, he didn’t want it to end. The uncertainty of what might happen if he let Mickey go had him clutching at Mickey even harder. He buried his face against the curve of Mickey’s neck and just breathed in his familiar scent; Ian could feel himself trembling.

This time Mickey’s touch was different. Where before he’d been clawing at Ian to get him closer, Mickey was gentle now. Almost as though Mickey was trying to soothe him.

“Ian, you okay?” he asked hesitantly.

“What?” Ian’s voice was thick.

“You didn’t...” Mickey swallowed hard. “Did you finish?”

“Just want to make it last a little longer.”

He felt Mickey’s body softening against him. Those caressing hands continued moving along Ian’s back; he felt his cock jump as Mickey subtly began rocking his hips.

“C’mon, man, just let go,” Mickey whispered against his skin.

Relenting, Ian did as he was told. He thrust forward helplessly, his body shuddering as the ripples of pleasure travelled through him. Once, twice, a third time, and then Ian felt his control fracture. He came with Mickey’s name on his lips.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neither of them said anything; they just stared at each other, silently willing the other to give in. The words were stuck in Mickey’s throat. If he could just get them out, he’d be able to convince Ian to stay, to hold on for just a little while longer.

It took a while for them to catch their breaths. Pressed up against Ian’s lean body, Mickey couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so good. All the stress and tension of the last couple weeks had fled, leaving Mickey feeling loose and sated.

“This doesn’t change anything, does it?”

Ian’s voice was soft, but resigned. He’d never heard Ian sound like that before; it made him nervous. Lifting his head off Ian’s chest, Mickey looked up at his face. His features were carefully blank, as though he didn’t care one way or the other. But it was the tension Mickey could feel in Ian’s body gave him away.

“Nothin’s changed anyway,” Mickey insisted. He shifted around some in bed to get a better look at Ian. “We’re still... y’know...” Here he stumbled, something that didn’t escape Ian’s notice.

“Still what, huh? Because since you seem to be having trouble saying it, you’ll excuse me if I’m having a hard time believing this is anything more to you than a fucking booty call.”

Those sharp words hurt; Mickey flinched before he could stop himself.

“That’s not fair,” he said quietly.

“You’re right, Mick, it’s not,” Ian agreed as he got out of bed. He began doing up his jeans, which had stayed bunched up around his thighs, all the while keeping his back to Mickey.

“Look, man, Terry’s gonna be back in the can soon,” Mickey began. There was the sudden awareness that things were unravelling, and he was desperate to stop it. “Just gimme some time an’ things will go back to normal.”

“And what the hell is normal?” Ian turned to glare at him. “Acting like we’re just friends in public, but fucking in private? Pretending all the time?”

Mickey didn’t say anything. He could feel panic bubbling up inside him, and he did his best to force it away.

“I’ve never pretended anything with you,” he said calmly, even though he was mentally flailing for a way to keep things from falling apart.

He needed Ian.

But apparently he couldn’t give Ian what he needed.

“Mick, I...” Ian looked away from him. “You know how I feel about you. But we can’t keep doing this. If you can’t tell people about me, then...” There was a long pause, and Mickey felt like the bottom of his stomach had dropped out. “I deserve better,” Ian said finally.

Neither of them said anything; they just stared at each other, silently willing the other to give in. The words were stuck in Mickey’s throat. If he could just get them out, he’d be able to convince Ian to stay, to hold on for just a little while longer.

But nothing came. And so he just sat there. Hurt seared through his entire body as Ian quickly got dressed. Panic burned his chest as Ian left the bedroom.

Then, as the sound of the apartment door being shut firmly echoed through the quiet apartment, hopelessness choked him.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Seriously, you made me wait out here for almost thirty minutes, just so you could fuck your not-really boyfriend?” Andrew’s outrage was palpable. “I can’t believe—”

He paused mid-tirade to peer at Ian’s expression. Something about whatever Andrew saw there cause him to change tactics rapidly, from righteous indignation to concern.

Ian was too numb to care about what his friend might be thinking.

“You okay?” Andrew asked.

“I’m fine,” Ian responded automatically. Andrew reached out to put his hand on Ian’s arm, but Ian flinched away from him. Ian couldn’t take being touched right now.

They made the trip to the L in silence. The whole trip, Ian was distantly aware of the worried looks Andrew kept shooting in his direction. But he was too tired to try to reassure the other man.

All Ian wanted right then was to be with his family.

Knowing Lip was probably at work, Ian decided to head to Fiona’s apartment. Once they arrived at their stop, Ian forced a smile while saying goodbye to Andrew. He then focused on putting one foot in front of the other to get to his sister’s place.

He had a key; they all did. Silently praying that his big sister was home, Ian unlocked the apartment and stepped inside. Nothing much had changed since Jimmy had gone. Same pretty but inexpensive rug in the hallway; familiar couches in the living room; Liam’s toys scattered about.

Ian felt some of the tension drain out of him.

“Anybody home?” he called out.

“In the kitchen,” Fiona answered.

Relief coursed through him at the sound of her voice. Steps heavy, Ian headed into the kitchen where he found Fiona riffling through the freezer.

“Hey, stranger,” she said, looking up with a smile. She shoved the freezer door closed, and stepped forward to pull him into a hug. Ian held onto her even tighter when it felt like she was going to pull away.

The closest thing the Gallagher kids had ever had to a mother, Fiona had always been there for them, no matter what. Ian had seen the strain she’d been under time and again after she was forced to put her own problems on the back burner so she could take care of her siblings. And so, Ian had resolved not to force her into that position if he could help it.

But right now he really needed the comfort his big sister’s arms could provide.

“You okay?” Fiona asked. She sounded worried as she kept her arms around him. “C’mon, sweetie, tell me what’s wrong.”

Blinking back the tears that had come to the fore, Ian pulled away.

“Bad breakup,” he muttered.

“Didn’t know you had a boyfriend,” she said with a frown. “I’m guessin’ it was serious.”

“Thought it was.”

Before they could continue, though, they were interrupted by a new voice.

“Fi? Have you seen my—?” Gus’ question was abruptly cut off when he caught sight of Ian standing in the kitchen. “Crap, is this a bad time?”

Immediately uncomfortable with a relative stranger seeing him like this, Ian straightened up.

“It’s fine,” he answered. Shrugging easily, he shoved aside the upset to give his new brother-in-law an amicable smile. “I was just leaving.”

“No, you’re not,” Fiona told him sharply. “Stay right there.” When Ian opened his mouth to argue, she pinned him with a glare. “I mean it.”

Knowing better than to argue with that tone of voice, Ian obediently remained in the kitchen while Fiona helped Gus find whatever it was he was looking for. It was weird, seeing his big sister taking to the role of wife. Weird, but... kind of nice.

She seemed happy.

A few minutes later, Fiona returned, a fond smile lighting her face.

“God, that man can’t keep track of anythin’,” she complained. “Now, we’re turnin’ into one of those couples. _Honey, have you seen my...?_ ” Fiona deepened her voice in an imitation of Gus’ gruff voice. “ _Right here, baby_.” Her voice went up an octave in an exaggeratedly sweet tone.

“Doesn’t sound that awful,” Ian admitted.

The humour in her eyes disappeared in an instant.

“Shit, I’m sorry. We were talkin’ about you,” she said, sounding contrite.

“It’s okay. I-I don’t really want to talk about it right now.”

“No, come on. I wanna hear about this jackass who thinks he can just blow off my little brother.”

“Seriously, it’s fine. I just... I need a distraction,” Ian said honestly.

Fiona stared at him for a moment, obviously trying to gauge if he was trying to bullshit her. Deciding for the moment to believe him, she changed the subject.

“You wanna stay for dinner? I’m tryin’ to make somethin’ other than lasagne. Gus is gonna think he married a one-trick pony.”

“That’s all you’ve been making?”

“Well, he seemed to like it. A lot. But now... It’s not funny,” she chided him when he started to grin. Fiona reached out to poke him in the shoulder. “Alright, for that, you can help me cook.”

And for the next while, Ian concentrated on helping his sister with a pot roast. He couldn’t remember ever having had one while they were growing up, but Fiona was pulling out all the stops when it came to this guy. He didn’t forget about Mickey while he was busy focusing on Fiona’s attempts to impress her husband, but time did seem to pass a little faster.

Dinner was the usual noisy Gallagher affair, and his younger siblings were all glad to see him. It was almost enough for Ian to ignore the pang in his chest when he noticed the way Gus and Fiona were looking at each other.

Because he wanted that. Ian wanted it so badly he ached. And for a short time, he’d thought he was going to get it.

_Next time,_ he told himself. _Next time will be better._ For now, at least he had his family.

Still, that didn’t erase the bitter taste in his mouth as he tried to swallow his sister’s carefully prepared dinner.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Predictably, Mickey found himself in some dingy bar that night. The lights were dim, and the buzz of voices surrounded him. He’d been drinking. Not as much as he usually did, but enough for his mind to be clouded. And beneath the haze of alcohol, anger and hopelessness were mingling together, making him feel vaguely sick.

It was over. Everything was fucked, and Mickey had let it happen.

Shame burned through him as he thought of the resigned expression on Ian’s face before he’d walked away.

_I deserve better._

And wasn’t that the fucking truth? Hell, Mickey was surprised Ian had put up with him for so long. Who the fuck would ever be happy being with being kept a secret? With being with somebody who was too afraid to admit that...

“You okay?” Mandy asked him.

“Fine,” Mickey muttered.

She’d sidled up beside him at the bar. Mandy glanced surreptitiously at their father, where he was holding court with a couple of his cronies. They were loud, and many of the other patrons were checking them out warily. Assured that no one would notice, Mandy gently put her hand on his shoulder.

For some reason, Mickey allowed the touch. He’d been so wrapped up in his own bullshit, that it was easy to forget that Mandy was going through her own hell. Quickly, before he could pussy out, he reached up to squeeze her fingers once before letting go.

“How ‘bout you?” he asked quietly. “You gonna take that piece of shit back?”

Mandy hesitated; her fingers tapped out a nervous rhythm on the bar top.

“I dunno,” she said finally.

He wanted to argue with her, to tell her that she could do so much better than some worthless prick that hurt her, but he bit his tongue.

_Wasn’t really his place to be dishing out relationship advice._

They sat there in silence for a few minutes. That hopeless feeling was creeping up, and Mickey was having a hard time pushing it back. He ordered another drink.

“...kicked his ass!” Terry’s voice cut through Mickey’s thoughts. Loud and harsh, his words rose above the general din in the bar. “Fuckin’ faggot, prancin’ ‘round like he owned the goddamn place.”

His father was recounting his favourite pastime: fag bashing.

“Hey, dad,” Mickey called across the room.

“What the hell d’you think you’re doin’?” Mandy whispered. She cast frantic looks between Mickey and their father, who had turned around to face him.

Reckless now, Mickey ignored her.

_Not like he had much to lose._

“The fag, what’d he look like?” Terry’s expression had darkened, but Mickey didn’t wait for the older man to speak. Instead, he smirked as he asked, “Did he look like me?”

It seemed like the whole bar had fallen silent. Mandy released a quiet, emphatic, “ _Fuck_ ,” from behind him.

“What the fuck d’you say, boy?” Terry snarled.

“Only askin’ ‘cause it’s just... all us fags look the same, right?” Mickey glanced over at his brothers, who were staring at him in shock. “What, dad didn’t tell you?”

“You shut your fuckin’ mouth.” His father shoved away from the table. Terry’s face, already red from all the booze he’d been drinking, was now mottled with rage.

And in that moment, faced by Terry’s fury, Mickey found that he didn’t care.

He couldn’t give a single fuck.

It was incredibly liberating. And then, the words were pouring out of his mouth before he could think better of it.

“I just want everybody here to know I’m fuckin’ gay. A big ol’ ‘mo.”

Silence. All Mickey could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat and laboured breathing.

Terry’s outraged roar fractured the quiet. All Mickey could do was brace himself as his father shoved the table separating them aside, sending glass to the floor in a loud crash. There were people yelling, but he couldn’t focus on that.

Everything happened really fast after that. Mickey could hear Mandy shouting something at him, but he didn’t respond. His father was right in front of him; pain exploded on the side of Mickey’s face as the older man’s fist connected with his jawbone.

“Gonna fuckin’ kill you!” Terry bellowed. He landed another hit, and then another, and then another.

Reaching blindly behind him, Mickey scrabbled for something to use as a weapon. Fingers grazing glass, he latched onto a beer bottle before slamming it into Terry’s face. That earned him an outraged bellow as his father staggered back.

After that, neither of them held back. One particularly vicious blow landed Mickey on his ass, and Terry’s heavier body managed to keep him pinned to the ground. Trying to get in what hits he could, Mickey’s aim was off as pain throbbed through his body. His vision was made blurry by the blows to his head, and the blood creeping into his eyes; he could just make out Mandy trying to pull their father off him.

But Terry didn’t seem to notice.

Finally, _finally_ , Mickey could feel Terry’s weight being lifted off him. His father was still raging, arms and legs flailing as two uniformed men pulled him away from Mickey. He’d never been so happy to see Chicago’s finest before, Mickey thought dimly.

“Jesus Christ, Mick.” Mandy had dropped to her knees beside him. Her makeup was smeared with tears; underneath that, her skin was ghostly pale. “You fuckin’ idiot, why the hell d’you do that?”

Mickey had the feeling that, if he weren’t already bleeding, she would’ve hit him.

“Fe-felt good,” he forced out.

This time Mandy did hit him, a light swat on his upper arm.

“Dumbass, if you wanted the shit beaten outta you, you should’ve asked,” she chided him.

His ribs hurt when he laughed.

“Excuse me, miss? We’re going to have to ask you to step aside.”

Glancing up, Mickey saw that there were two EMTs standing just behind Mandy. They both wore serious expressions, and one was busy pulling on a pair of rubber gloves.

_Huh_ , Mickey thought inanely. _Did this mean he wasn’t gonna be arrested?_

Mandy reluctantly gave the medics room, but stayed close. She watched as they poked and prodded at Mickey, scowling when she saw him wince. They shined a bright light in his eyes, and stuck their fingers in his ribs.

“That fu-fuckin’ hurts,” he rasped.

Their voices flew over his head; some of it sounded serious, with words like _concussion_ and _fractured_ being thrown around. Mickey barely heard them. All that registered right then was the vicious pain in his side and skull.

A few minutes later, Mickey felt himself being lifted onto a gurney. He opened his mouth to argue—he’d had far worse injuries than this before without making a trip to the hospital—but the threatening look Mandy aimed in his direction shut him up. The medics appeared similarly cowed when Mandy informed them she’d be travelling with Mickey.

He was loaded into the ambulance; the gurney was jolted around a little, making him flinch. Quickly, Mandy climbed in beside him. Once she was settled, she reached out to take one of Mickey’s hands in hers. She gave his fingers a surprisingly gentle squeeze.

Giving up on trying to keep his eyes open, Mickey allowed his heavy lids to fall shut.

_Yeah, sure, so every part of his body hurt. But that heavy weight in the centre of his chest had been lifted._

_He was finally free._


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After six months without a word from Mickey, Ian knew he should’ve been furious. He’d been so sure that after the way they’d ended things, the other man would come back within a few days, wanting to work things out. You didn’t just throw away something like they’d had, Ian had reasoned.
> 
> But apparently he’d been wrong.

**_Six Months Later..._ **

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

“C’mon, man, why can’t you just answer the question?”

“’Cause it’s a stupid fuckin’ question.”

Mandy left her bedroom, curious as to why her brothers were yelling at each other. Well, it was more that Mickey was yelling, and Iggy just sounded confused. She felt her lips twitch up into a grin.

“Not stupid,” Iggy said indignantly. “I’m goin’ on a date tonight. I just wanna know it you think this shirt’s okay.” He gestured impatiently at what he was wearing. It was a mustard yellow, button up shirt, and jeans a whole lot tighter than he usually wore them; clearly, their older brother had put in some effort.

It was oddly touching.

Only, Mickey didn’t seem to give a shit.

“The fuck you askin’ me for, huh?” he demanded.

“You’re gay, man. Gays are all ‘bout the fashion, an’ shit. Right?”

This time Mandy couldn’t hold it back. Between Iggy’s earnest expression, and Mickey’s outraged one, it was too much. She burst out laughing.

“Oh, my God,” she giggled.

Her brothers had taken the news that Mickey was gay relatively well, all things considered. Colin had more or less shrugged things off. Joey shook his head in apparent disgust, but hadn’t commented.

But Iggy.

God, the questions. They were _relentless._

And now their brother had apparently taken it into his head that Mickey’s coming out had apparently turned him into some kind of fashionista.

It took a while for Mandy’s laughter to subside with the bewildered way Mickey and Iggy were staring at her. But finally, her shoulders stopped shaking, and she wiped the tears off her face. Calm now, she turned to Iggy.

“No one’s gonna put out for you in that shirt,” she told him seriously.

He made a disgruntled face at her comment, but didn’t argue. Instead, he rounded on Mickey.

“See? It’s not that hard.”

Iggy then stomped off, leaving her alone with Mickey, whose scowl had only deepened.

“Fuckin’ moron,” he grumbled.

“You wanna help me?” Mandy asked after a moment. “I’m puttin’ stuff in boxes.”

“What, you movin’ out?” Mickey immediately shook his head in denial. “You can’t leave me with these assholes, you can’t—”

“Jesus, calm down,” she told him impatiently.

With an irritable shake of her head, Mandy turned on her heel, and stalked to her bedroom. After a few seconds, she heard Mickey’s footsteps trailing after her.

Her room was undergoing a spring-cleaning of sorts. After months of back and forth between her and Kenyatta, Mandy had finally had enough. After one heated argument, during which time he’d sent dishes flying across the kitchen, Mandy had reached her breaking point. No more.

“What’s goin’ on?” Mickey asked cautiously.

“I’m gettin’ rid of Kenyatta’s stuff,” she replied. “We’re done.”

Something in her voice must’ve told Mickey that she was serious. He stared at her for a second before shrugging, acting casual. Still, she could see the relief in his eyes.

“’Bout time,” was all he said. Then, he turned to look at the boxes littering the floor around her bed. There was a surprising amount of Kenyatta’s things lying around; shoes, t-shirts, deodorant. Mandy had found some money too, but she was holding on to that.

“You think I can give some of this shit to a church?” she asked thoughtfully.

Mickey appeared to consider it.

“Sure. Or you could, y’know, burn it.”

“Good second option.”

They were quiet for a few minutes. Mandy busied herself by shoving more clothes into a box, while Mickey parked his ass on the bed.

“Everythin’ okay with you?” Mandy asked eventually.

“Fine. Why?” He gave her a strange look.

“I was just wonderin’... you heard from Ian?”

She chanced a quick look at her brother’s face. It was a touchy subject, and he’d shut her down every time she’d tried to bring it up. Now, Mickey was carefully avoiding her gaze, his eyes flickering around the room; he shifted around uncomfortably on the bed.

“Not since... Not for a while,” he answered finally.

“Why the hell not?” she demanded. Her hands on a pair of Air Nikes, she scowled at him. When Mickey didn’t reply, she flung a shoe at his head to get his attention.

“Answer me, jackass.”

“Fuck, fine!” Mickey returned her glare with interest. “I dunno what to say to him. We-we broke up. Or whatever.”

“Yeah, but... why?”

“I couldn’t... He wanted me to be... y’know.” He sighed heavily. “Out.”

Mandy stared at her brother for a minute. She saw the misery in his expression—misery he didn’t bother trying to hide—and felt a pang of sympathy.

Then she hurled the other shoe at him.

“Jesus, Mandy, what the fuck?” he yelped.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ heard! God, like, how the hell d’you even function?”

Mickey started to say something, but she cut him off, too irritated to listen to his half-assed excuses.

“You’ve been out for months. An’ you’re just sittin’ on your ass right now?”

“It’s-it’s complicated,” he muttered.

“No, it’s easy,” Mandy snapped. Abruptly losing patience, she threw her hands up in the air. “Y’know what? Get out. I don’t wanna look at you right now.”

“But—”

“Out!”

Giving her a wounded look, Mickey left the bedroom.

Mandy took a moment to draw in a few deep breaths. _God, men could be idiots._ In no mood to stay in the house with said idiots, Mandy stepped over the half-full boxes to get to her closet. She was going to pretty herself up, and do something fun.

It only took a few minutes to get dressed. Giving herself one last satisfied look in the mirror, Mandy sauntered out of her bedroom, and towards the front door.

“Where the hell you goin’?” Mickey asked from his position on the couch.

“None of your business, fuck twat,” she answered, still pissed off at him.

“You’re not gonna do somethin’ stupid, right?”

 _Okay, that got to her._ Rounding on her brother, Mandy gave him a look.

“Seriously? You’re gonna lecture me ‘bout bein’ stupid?”

“Don’t try an’ be helpful, okay? Like, if you’re goin’ to see Ian, or some shit, don’t.” He looked at her pleadingly.

“Pfft,” Mandy scoffed. “Yeah, don’t worry ‘bout it. You fucked up, you can fix it.”

And with that, she left the house.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“God, I shouldn’t do this. I mean, we left things in a shitty place. Right?”

Ian was pacing the floor of his apartment anxiously. In his hand, he was gripping his cell phone, more tightly than the situation warranted. And watching him, with more patience than Ian would’ve suspected he possessed, was Carl.

His brother had slept over the night before. Apparently, there’d been some sort of disagreement between Debbie and Carl involving a hair straightener, and for safety reasons, Carl had decided to avoid the Gallagher house for a night or two.

Only, Ian couldn’t help but wonder if Carl didn’t regret not taking his chances with Debbie. After all, a slightly tipsy Ian had spent most of the night before regaling the kid about his guy troubles.

Or the distinct lack thereof since he and Mickey had ended things.

“Then you shouldn’t do it,” Carl told him reasonably.

“Yeah. I mean, you’re right.” Ian nodded emphatically, although he wasn’t entirely sure who he was trying to convince at this point.

After six months without a word from Mickey, Ian knew he should’ve been furious. He’d been so sure that after the way they’d ended things, the other man would come back within a few days, wanting to work things out. You didn’t just throw away something like they’d had, Ian had reasoned.

But apparently he’d been wrong.

The only reason he was even thinking about contacting Mickey now was because... Well, he was going to be graduating soon. And everyone he loved was going to be there.

Everyone except Mickey.

Damn it, he missed that stubborn asshole so much.

“It’s just... I don’t know,” Ian continued after a moment. “Maybe it can be a sort of, you know, olive branch. Or something.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Carl agreed.

Ian aimed a glare at his brother.

“You know you’re not really helping, right?”

A heavy sigh. Carl scratched his head; he was apparently running out of patience.

“D’you wanna see him again?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Ian answered quietly after a brief pause. “Yeah, I really want to see him again.”

“So, invite him,” Carl told him. “An’ if he doesn’t show, least you’ll know where you guys stand.”

_Simple, but effective._

“When did you become a love guru?” Ian asked teasingly.

Carl gave him a bland look.

“You think you’re the only one who bitches to me ‘bout your love life?” Then, changing the subject completely, he added, “We should order pizza.”

“Sure. Whatever you want,” Ian agreed.

Then, before he could think it all the way through, he sent the text to Mickey.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nervousness raced through Mickey as he stood at the open gates of the cemetery. He hadn’t been here in years; hadn’t even been tempted, although he knew he owed it to the people inside.

Both Adam and his mother had been buried here.

He wasn’t sure why, exactly, he’d come to this place. There was some vague idea of closure, but what the fuck did that even mean? You came here to talk at a hunk of rock and some bones, and just magically felt better?

It wouldn’t change anything. The person you loved was still dead, and you were still here.

Alone.

Taking a deep breath, Mickey forced himself forward. It took a while for him to find the grave he was looking for. His breath caught as he stood before it.

Nataliya Milkovich’s grave was in sad state. Cracks in the cheap headstone were visible, and the grass over the grave had grown long and untidy. He felt a wave of guilt rising up inside him. This was where their mother was buried, and they’d let it look like this.

 _Then again_ , he reminded himself, _Nataliya was probably too busy being dead to care._

Not sure how to do this, Mickey cleared his throat self-consciously; leaning forward, he placed the sad little bouquet of flowers he’d bought outside the cemetery on his mother’s grave.

“I’m, uh...” He let out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry I haven’t come ‘round. Y’know, to-to see you.”

_Fuck, he felt stupid._

“Probably just talkin’ to myself here, but I figured... what the hell, right?” Mickey glanced around to make sure no one was in hearing distance before he continued. “An’ I just want you to know that we’re okay. We’re all... we’re fine. ‘Cept maybe Colin. Got caught on a DUI again, the dumb fuck.”

Mickey’s next words were a little harder to say. He took a few seconds before he spoke again.

“An’ I took care of your camera. It... That thing saved my life. I dunno what I’d have done without it. So, y’know... Thanks.” He gently ran his ringers over the headstone, and resolved to clear up the grave when he came back here again. Or he’d talk to the manager, or whoever was in charge of this place to get it done.

Then, not sure if he should say goodbye, or whatever, Mickey just gave a little nod.

 _Like she could see him_ , he thought derisively.

The next grave was a little easier to find, mostly because the thing showed some signs of actually being visited on the regular.

 **Adam Mason McCormack**  
            Beloved Son  & Brother   
We Shall Forever Cherish His Memory

For a long while, Mickey just stared at the words etched into the tombstone. Weird, how his first thought was that he hadn’t known that Adam’s middle name was Mason. He’d have teased the shit out of the guy for that.

Against his will, Mickey felt the tears well up. Regret, guilt, shame, grief; it all came pouring out of him. Almost through a fog, Mickey stepped up to the grave, got down onto the ground to rest his back against the headstone, a sob catching in his throat.

He’d never really let himself think about it before. Logically, Mickey had known that Adam was dead. There’d been no more texts about how the Bears were doing; no more late night action movie marathons; no more bad gay jokes, as though Adam had hoped that if he used the word _gay_ enough, Mickey would somehow grow more comfortable with it. But it had never completely sunk in.

His friend really was gone.

It took a while before Mickey finally released a shuddering breath. His chest felt raw.

The marble of the headstone had grown warm from where Mickey was leaning against it. Not allowing himself to think about what he was doing, Mickey began to talk.

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “For... for always fuckin’ up with you. An’ for what happened with my dad.” The tears came again, but he blinked them back. “I could’ve tried harder. I _should’ve_ tried harder. I’m sorry fo-for not comin’ to your funeral. That was...”

His fingers were clenched in the grass beneath him; he resisted the urge to pull it up in chunks.

Mickey didn’t know how long he sat there for, memories drifting through his head. Finally, he was snapped out of his daze by the feel of his phone buzzing in his pocket. Hands made clumsy by the cold that was setting in, Mickey fished the thing out, and glanced at the screen without any real interest.

Until he saw that it was a text from Ian.

Quickly straightening, Mickey opened up the message. He read through it a couple times before the meaning sank in. Then, his heart started pounding.

It was an invitation to Ian’s graduation ceremony, taking place next week. The message was short, with just the time, date, and location, and one sentence after that.

**Mean a lot if you were there.**

Mickey licked his lips, glanced at the headstone as though he expected to find Adam looking over his shoulder to read the message.

Here was his chance. Because he’d fucked up; God knew, Mickey had fucked up. But maybe now, he’d be able to take Mandy’s advice, and fix it.

_What the hell are you waiting for?_

He didn’t know if that was Mandy’s voice in his head, or Adam’s. And right now, it didn’t matter.

Scrolling through his contact list, Mickey dialled his sister’s number. While he waited impatiently for her to answer, he got up off the ground. Gently, he ran his fingers over Adam’s name etched into the marble.

“I’ll come back,” he promised.

_And maybe he could bring Ian with him._

“What?” Mandy snapped when she finally deigned to pick up the phone.

“I need you to take me to the mall.”

_Because he was in desperate need of something decent to wear._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my God. Noisy Neighbours has had more than 20 thousand hits!!! MADNESS!!! Thank you to every single one of you for taking the time to read this. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1000 kudos! I really can't believe it. Thank you so much you wonderful, beautiful people! I really hope you enjoy this next chapter too!

Ian was in agony. Seriously, in this moment, he was convinced that no one had ever suffered as he was no suffering.

“C’mon, Ian, smile! This is your big day!”

Blinking rapidly as the camera’s flash all but blinded him, Ian tried not to grimace at Fiona. His sister was practically bouncing with excitement, a bright smile lighting up her face. Gus was standing just behind her, watching her with a fond expression.

This whole thing wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for Lip and Andrew. Snarky assholes were standing just out of Fiona’s line of vision, and were taking great pleasure out of watching Ian squirm in his graduation gown.

“Red hair and freckles?” Andrew said in a bad British accent. “You must be a Weasley.”

“That’s not even how it goes, jackass,” Ian grumbled as Andrew and Lip snickered.

Another flash went off, and Fiona had apparently caught his scowl. She glanced down at the little screen of their crappy digital camera, and back up at him with a disapproving expression.

“Is this really how you want to remember today?” she asked, gesturing threateningly at him with the camera. “You’re the first one of us to graduate from college, so don’t you dare ruin this for me. Now smile, damn it.”

Ian knew better than to argue with that tone. Forcing a smile, Ian mused that this whole thing would’ve been a little bit more bearable if he knew Mickey would be coming later.

Only, there’d been no reply to his text, and Ian had pretty much given up on the hope that he’d show.

It would be a lie to say he wasn’t disappointed.

“Alright, family photos,” Fiona announced.

“Can’t we do it aft—?” The sharp glare his older sister aimed in his direction shut him up. Resigned now, Ian endured another forty-five goddamn minutes of pictures with his siblings. Frank and Monica weren’t there. Their mother had taken off again to God only knew where, and Ian wasn’t entirely sure Frank even remembered who he was.

After a while, though, Ian found his family’s enthusiasm infectious. Hell, Fi was right; this was his day. He’d worked damn hard for this. And maybe now... Well, maybe this meant he could move on.

Eventually Fiona decided that they’d had enough pictures—for now—and they all clambered into Gus’ van.

_One of the perks of marrying a band member,_ Ian guessed.

Relaxing back into his seat, Ian allowed the nervous excitement he felt fade into the back of his mind as his family chattered all around him.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I’m gonna kill him,” Mickey vowed.

“Give him a couple more minutes.”

Mickey aimed a glare at his sister, even though it wasn’t her that he was pissed off with. The graduation ceremony was due to start at twelve-thirty, and Iggy had taken the car out on a run with the promise that he’d be home in time.

Only, it was nearing twelve, and the shithead still wasn’t back.

Pacing edgily across the living room, Mickey fidgeted with his tie. The damn thing felt like a fucking noose; he spared a moment to wonder what the hell had been wrong with him that he’d allowed Mandy to pick out what he was going to wear.

Black pants—since jeans had been nixed—a black button up shirt, and the stupid tie. He felt fucking ridiculous.

“Stop that,” Mandy told him sharply.

While he’d been moving, his fingers had started loosening the tie from its carefully constructed knot. Mandy brushed his hands aside as she straightened the damn thing.

“You wanna go there lookin’ like a bum, or like a guy tryin’ to make things up with his boyfriend?” she demanded. “’Cause you only got one shot at this.”

Before Mickey could tell her to stop being dramatic, or step away from her busy hands, he heard the distinctive spluttering of the Milkovich car’s engine.

“Thank Christ,” he muttered.

Taking only enough time to grab his cell phone and wallet, Mickey barrelled out of the house.

A cigarette dangling from his lips, Iggy took his sweet time getting out of the car. Mickey didn’t have patience for this; scowling as his brother gave a lazy stretch, Mickey shoved him unceremoniously out of the way.

“The fuck, man?” Iggy said indignantly.

“In a hurry, dipshit.”

And with that, Mickey sped off, weaving through the traffic and ignoring as many traffic lights as he could. He’d made pretty good time, but he was still late.

Mickey wasn’t really a runner—not unless it involved the cops—but today he made an exception. After parking his car haphazardly, he hurried in the direction of the enormous auditorium where the ceremony was being held. There were a few people milling around, but otherwise the hallways were quiet.

Following the signs that’d been stuck on the walls, Mickey took the stairs two at a time, then hurried to the nearest doorway.

There weren’t many free seats. The place was packed, and there was a smattering of polite applause in response to whatever the old guy on the podium was saying. Ignoring that for now, Mickey looked around for a place to sit. As he picked his way through the crowd, there was some irritable muttering. He tamped down on his instinctive urge to tell them to fuck off, and instead sat down without a word.

The ceremony seemed to take forever, with an endless list of names being called, none of them the one he was waiting to hear. Mickey was tapping his foot impatiently when finally the dude at the podium read out Ian’s name.

A loud cheer erupted. Three rows ahead of him it appeared that the entire Gallagher clan was there. They’d leapt to their feet, clapping and yelling as Ian made his way across the stage.

Irritated that they were blocking his view of the redhead, Mickey still couldn’t hold back a grin. He was glad Ian’s family was making a big deal out of this.

God knew Ian deserved it.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ian had spent most of the graduation ceremony fighting a smile. There had been a flutter of nervousness in his stomach as he’d stepped onto the stage, one that had quickly dissipated at the sound of his family’s raucous cheers as he’d accepted his degree.

Even after everything was over, he was still having a hard time believing it.

He’d _done_ it. All the hard work, and he’d made it.

Feeling slightly giddy, Ian made his way through the crowd to find his siblings. It took a few minutes—the auditorium was crowded with people—but he finally spotted them. Not caring that they were holding people up, Ian found himself engulfed by hugs.

They all held onto each other tightly for a moment.

“Alright, enough of this,” Fiona said, pulling back. She wiped impatiently at the tears on her cheeks, and gave a wide smile. “Let’s get outta here. We can grab somethin’ to eat, somewhere fancy, if you want.”

“Yeah, that’s... that’s great,” Ian replied with a grin.

As they were leaving the auditorium, Ian noticed that Debbie appeared distracted. Her feet were dragging a little, and she was craning her neck in search of something.

“Cute guy?” he asked teasingly.

“Huh?” She gave him a puzzled look before understanding dawned. “No, I just...” Debbie shook her head, and took another quick glance around her. “I thought I saw Mickey hanging around.”

“What?” Ian immediately froze in place.

_Mickey was here?_

“Where’d you see him?” Ian asked frantically. He stood up on his tiptoes, using his height to see over the heads of the people milling around them. Hope shot through him; there were some people grumbling about him being in the way, but he didn’t care.

“Hey, Ian, what’s—?” Fiona called out.

But her words faded into the background as Ian spotted him. Mickey’s back was to him, but Ian would recognise that distinctive swagger anywhere.

Pushing his way through the crowd, Ian hurried after him.

“Mick! Mick, wait!”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Shit._

In hindsight, Mickey knew he hadn’t really thought this through. Sure, Ian had invited him, but Mickey hadn’t responded to the message, some half-assed idea of surprising Ian running through his head. But now that he was here...

_Yeah, he’d screwed up._

_Again._

“Mick!”

It was so good to hear Ian saying his name again. Stopping in his tracks, Mickey took a moment to brace himself before turning around.

They stared at each other for a moment. Ian looked good, even with the goofy hat. Noticing that his gaze was lingering on the tassels, Ian quickly pulled the thing off, an embarrassed expression on his face.

“Hey,” he said finally.

“Didn’t know you were coming,” Ian commented.

“Uh, yeah, I, uh...” _Fuck._   Mickey hesitated briefly before blurting it out. “I wanted to surprise you.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Delight shot through Ian at Mickey’s words.

“A surprise, huh?” he asked with a grin. Ian watched as Mickey shifted uncomfortably, a flush spreading across his pale skin.

“Probably wasn’t the best idea,” he muttered, avoiding Ian’s gaze.

There were people all around them, and the occasional shoulder bumped into Ian as people brushed past impatiently. And yet Ian would’ve gladly stood there with Mickey all day.

“Ian, what’s goin’ on?

_Damn._ Ian had forgotten about his family in his excitement to see Mickey. Glancing over his shoulder, he found his siblings watching him with varying degrees of curiosity.

“Sorry, guys, we were just...” He trailed off, unsure of how much Mickey would be comfortable with him saying.

“Hi,” Mickey said, surprising him. Taking a step forward, he came to stand beside Ian. He nodded in Fiona’s direction. “I’m Mickey.”

Watching as Fiona’s eyes darted between them, Ian saw the exact moment his older sister put two and two together. She gave Mickey a wary look.

“Yeah, I recognise you from the weddin’,” she told him. To Ian, she added, “You ready to go?”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The older sister’s not-so-subtle way of providing Ian with an out had Mickey wincing. Still, he took the hint, and prepared to say goodbye. He was hopeful, though. Granted, this whole thing could’ve gone a whole lot better, but maybe it was a step in the right direction.

Maybe Ian would give him another chance.

Ian spoke before Mickey could say anything.

“Sure,” he told his sister. Then, Ian turned to him with an expectant stare. “You want to come with?”

_Okay, he hadn’t been expecting that._ And, judging by the expression on big sis’ face, neither had she.

“Uh, I dunno how much space there’s gonna be in the van,” Fiona started.

“Look, Ian, it’s fine. We can talk later, or whatever. If you want.”

“I want you with me.”

The matter-of-fact way Ian said it took Mickey even further aback. _Jesus, he was gonna get whiplash at this rate_. He struggled for a few seconds to wrap his head around the unexpected turn this conversation had taken.

“If you want, I got my car,” Mickey said after a moment. “I can take you wherever you gotta go.”

“Sounds good.” Then, before Fiona could argue, Ian grabbed Mickey by the arm, and started walking in the opposite direction. Over his shoulder, he told his sister, “We’ll meet you there.”

As they moved away from Ian’s family, Mickey had the belated realisation that this meant that he was going to be spending at least a half hour with the redhead.

_Alone._

He kind of wanted to hurl.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Okay, that had probably been a little heavy handed, but Ian had had no idea of how else to get some alone time with Mickey.

Only now that he’d gotten what he wanted, he wasn’t really sure what to do with it.

There was some traffic getting out of the parking lot, and Mickey seemed to be concentrating unusually hard on it, muttering some creative curses whenever someone cut in front of him. But he didn’t say a word to Ian. Deciding to ignore what was going on outside the car, Ian chose to focus on Mickey. He hadn’t seen the other man in months, and now here he was, close enough to touch.

Allowing his gaze to travel over Mickey, Ian felt himself smiling. He’d never seen Mickey this dressed up before. Although the tie had been loosened a little, and the top button of his shirt was undone, it was clear that Mickey had put in some effort.

“Mandy pick this out for you?” he asked after a minute or two.

The question was met with a grimace; Mickey reached for his tie, and began tugging on it.

“Big fuckin’ mistake,” he grumbled. “Got stuck in the mall for fuckin’ hours.”

“I think you look nice,” Ian told him.

Again, Mickey flushed. Keeping his stare fixed determinedly on the road, Mickey’s profile was angled just the right way for Ian to notice something that hadn’t been there before: A long, thin scar running down from Mickey’s hairline to his temple.

Instinctively, Ian reached out to touch it.

“What happened?”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For a second, Ian’s words failed to register. All that mattered in that moment was that gentle touch on his skin.

_God, he’d missed this so much._

“Mickey,” the other man prodded when he took too long to answer. Withdrawing his hand, Ian stared at him impatiently. “What happened to you?” he asked again.

_Might as well tell him now_ , Mickey decided. _After all, that was why he was there._

Pulling up outside the Sizzlers that had opened a few weeks ago, Mickey tapped his fingers anxiously against the steering wheel.

“Got into a fight with my dad,” he said finally. “He, uh... go a little pissy when I told the whole bar that I’m gay.”

There was stunned silence in the car. Mickey snuck a peak at Ian to find that the other man’s mouth was hanging open. It wasn’t funny, he knew, but Mickey couldn’t quite muffle his snicker at the look on Ian’s face. The sound seemed to shake Ian out of his daze.

“You told a whole bar full of people... including your _dad_... that you’re gay,” Ian said slowly. He sounded like he couldn’t quite believe it.

And so Mickey told him everything. About Terry’s bragging, and the anger that had engulfed him. He described the surprise on the other patron’s faces at his announcement, and the fight that had started immediately after.

It was at that point that Ian interrupted him with a hard punch to the arm.

“Ow!” Mickey yelped. “The fuck, Gallagher?”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Ian looked furious for some reason. “You could’ve been killed!”

Mickey opened his mouth to argue, but found that he couldn’t. If Terry had had a few more minutes with him, things would’ve turned out very differently.

Still, Mickey couldn’t help but feel that it’d been worth it.

“You gonna hit me some more, or can I keep talkin’?” he asked. “Thank you,” he said when Ian gave an irritable nod.

Shrugging it off, he continued with the days he’d spent in the hospital and Mandy’s rough attempts at coddling him. Ian laughed as Mickey complained about Iggy’s absurd questions, and then sobered when Mickey told him about the visit to the cemetery.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” Mickey said finally.

They’d been sitting in the car for he didn’t know how long. Ian had shifted around in his seat so that he was facing Mickey; the whole time Mickey had been talking, he’d been conscious of Ian watching him intently.

“Me, too.”

“Okay, so... what now?”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ian felt his phone vibrating against his leg, and fought the urge to scowl. He loved his siblings, he really did, but they wouldn’t stop _bugging_ him. Choosing to ignore the insistent buzzing, Ian thought over Mickey’s question.

_What now?_

His first instinct was to say that they picked up where they’d left off. After months of missing Mickey, Ian just wanted to crawl into his lap, and kiss him.

But he needed to know that some things were going to change.

“You’re really out?”

“I’m really out.”

“And no more hiding?” Ian wished he could say that this was non-negotiable, but a part of him knew that even if Mickey said no, it wouldn’t make a difference.

“No more hidin’. I promise.”

“Really?”

“For Christ’s sake,” Mickey said impatiently. He rolled his eyes, that familiar exasperated expression making its appearance. “Yes, really. How many times I gotta—?”

There he was. Ian grinned, and unable to stop himself, reached out to snag Mickey’s tie, pulling him closer. Ian cut him off mid-tirade, loving the feel of Mickey’s lips against his after so long.

He made sure to keep the kiss brief; last thing they needed was to get carried away in the parking lot. Still, they were both breathing heavily by the time they parted. Mickey’s swollen lips and heavy-lidded gaze made Ian want to kiss him again.

“You ready for this?” Ian asked once he’d caught his breath.

“Ready for what?” Mickey sounded dazed.

“To meet my family.”

Mickey gave a pained groan at the question.

“No,” he muttered. “Your sister looked like she wanted to kick my ass.”

“Of course she does. I told her about the guy who broke up with me. She thinks you’re an asshole.”

Laughing at the expression on Mickey’s face, Ian got out of the car.

“Just wanna remind you that you broke up with me,” Mickey grumbled as he came around the car to Ian’s side. Then, after only a moment’s hesitation, he reached out to take Ian’s hand.

“You know I missed you, right?” Ian asked.

A flicker of emotion crossed Mickey’s face before he heaved a sigh.

“Let’s just get this over with, huh? You can show me how much you missed me later.”

He didn’t need Mickey telling him that; he already had plans for the night ahead. But instead of telling Mickey that, Ian just smiled his agreement, and gave his boyfriend a little tug. Then, with their fingers linked together, Mickey and Ian entered the restaurant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how many of you guys are aware of this, but Mickey is in the final four of SpoilerTV's Character Cup. You can go vote for him here: http://www.spoilertv.com/2015/07/2015-character-cup-final-four.html


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End.

“If that thing lands on my head, you know I’ll die, right?”

“Shut up,” was the grumbled reply.

Ian was lying in bed, watching as Mickey fiddled with the enormous old school camera in his hands. The blankets were bunched up around Ian’s waist, his arms behind his head; Mickey wanted to take pictures, but Ian was getting bored waiting.

“If you’d just buy a new one, we wouldn’t be having this problem,” Ian teased his boyfriend.

That earned him a scowl. Mickey was incredibly touchy about that camera.

“This thing takes better pictures than any of those new-fangled, made in fuckin’ China, pieces of shit they sell in the store,” Mickey informed him. “An’ don’t move,” he added when Ian stretched lazily.

“Aw, Mick, come on,” Ian complained. “It’s Saturday morning. Can’t we just cuddled like normal people?”

“Don’t you wanna take the pictures?” Mickey asked. His expression flickered with disappointment that he quickly tried to hide. He lowered the camera.

“What? No, Mick, you can take as many pictures as you want,” Ian said. Lifting himself up on his elbows, he gave Mickey a small smile. “But I just want to hold you right now, okay?”

Mickey searched his expression for a moment before relenting. Carefully placing his mother’s camera on the floor, he joined Ian in bed, pulling the covers up around them.

They lay there like that for a while. Ian absently ran his fingers through Mickey’s hair, while Mickey rested his head on Ian’s chest.

_It was nice._

“You know I love you, right?”

Blinking in surprise, Ian looked down at Mickey. He couldn’t see the other man’s face—Mickey kept his head down low against Ian’s chest, hiding his expression—but he could feel the sudden tension in the body lying next to him.

For a moment, Ian didn’t speak. He hadn’t really expected Mickey to say it; he felt it in almost everything Mickey did.

Still, to hear Mickey actually say those words aloud caused something inside him to give a sharp wrench.

“Yeah, I know,” he said finally, keeping his tone casual.

Mickey gradually relaxed. He nodded against Ian’s chest, his fingers lightly tracing patterns on Ian’s skin.

“I’ve got an idea,” Ian said as he slowly edged his hand towards his cell phone. Trying not to alert Mickey to what he was doing, he accessed the camera before adding, “How about a selfie?”

“Selfies are stupid,” Mickey said firmly.

“Snob,” Ian accused with a smirk, before snapping the picture.

“Gallagher, the fuck you think you’re doin’?” Mickey lifted his head to glare at Ian. The impact was somewhat lessened by the fact that Mickey’s hair was sticking up in places.

“It’s not bad,” Ian said as he checked his screen.

“Delete it,” Mickey ordered.

“Nope.”

Stretching his arm out of Mickey’s reach, Ian laughed as Mickey’s attempts to snatch the phone out of his hands turned into a wrestling match. Within a minute or two, the phone slid forgotten to the floor as Ian tried to pin Mickey to the bed. Their actions caused the bed frame to knock into the too thin wall of the apartment with a loud thud.

They laughed even louder when they heard the guy next door yelling at them to keep it down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I think that's the only word that can really sum up how I feel about this fic, and the response people had to it. I'll be honest, I was kind of taken aback by how much people liked it. And then absolutely delighted. So an enormous thank you to everyone who took the time to read this, who left kudos and comments, you are all spectacular. 
> 
> I'm going to put up a playlist on tumblr, if anyone's interested. You'll find me at http://mickeysbubblebutt.tumblr.com. Come chat, or whatever. I'll be happy to hear from you.


End file.
